


Persistence and Memory

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Addiction, Emotional Fallout, Greg!whump, Guilt, M/M, Past Domestic Violence, Rape (offscreen), Rape Recovery, Recovery, Sexually Transmitted Diseases, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-03-10 23:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13512288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: For Fandom Trumps Hate winner, Anyawen!"No one needed tolookfor me; I've been gone a few days before—""Yes. You have,” John admitted. He looked at the state of the flat they had once shared. It was hard to tell whether the experiments had been in disarray due to Sherlock’s having left unexpectedly, or had simply been abandoned in a fit of pique."And it's not as if I was gone for…" Sherlock stopped and thought."It'sWednesday, Sherlock.""Oh. I suppose I have been gone for a rather long time.""Long enough for us to compare notes on your known boltholes."When he suspects Sherlock is missing, Greg goes searching for him and finds himself in grave danger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anyawen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/gifts).



Sherlock threw a short, down parka onto the coat rack by the door, pulled off a knitted wool hat— hair flying in all directions— and spun with unwarranted grace to face John’s cold stare.

“Yeah, Greg went out to look for you. I'll shoot him a text to let him know you’re back."

He headed to the mirror above the fireplace and began fussing with his hair. "No one needed to _look_ for me; I've been gone a few days before—"

"Yes. You have,” John admitted. He looked at the state of the flat they had once shared. It was hard to tell whether the experiments had been in disarray due to Sherlock’s having left unexpectedly, or had simply been abandoned in a fit of pique.

"And it's not as if I was gone for…" Sherlock stopped and thought.

"It's _Wednesday_ , Sherlock."

"Oh. I suppose I have been gone for a rather long time."

"Long enough for us to compare notes on your known boltholes. Re-lived some rather unpleasant memories."

"I'm—"

"No, no none of that. Over and done. Just, I never expected to go back into that fake house again."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You weren't worried about my safety, then. You thought I was hiding. You thought I was _using_."

"You were supposed to have come for a visit this morning. At first, I figured you just forgot, but, then you wouldn't respond to your texts. I asked Greg if you were working on anything— that he knew about, at least— and he said you had wrapped up a murder that had everyone stumped for months but hadn't come in to show off the process, per your usual. Then we were both concerned. I… it did occur to me maybe you wouldn't talk to me if something was off... might just… you know… go… somewhere."

Sherlock headed to his bedroom for a new shirt. "There are times when it is ill-advised to have one’s mobile ping, John. And if ever I am using again, you'll likely have no suggestion that something is amiss for at least two weeks. What I won't be doing is hiding in a known bolthole. That is, unless I wish to be found and stopped. Consider the fact that I am telling you this an indication of just how little pull I have to return to that lifestyle.”

John raised his voice so Sherlock could hear him clearly from the sitting room."Yeah, I figured Greg and I would have a cat's chance anyway. Mycroft could probably find you, but he was- _is still_ \- doing whatever it is he does over in South Korea and didn’t know a thing about it. Checked here first, of course. Then I took the house and Greg took the drug den I found you at last time, just in case you w--"

Sherlock emerged in the doorway, his shirt still hanging over his trousers. "Wait. The one where you met Billy?"

"Yeah. Course he wouldn't be guarding the place this time round, but I'm sure Greg had no problem handling the new guy. Their security seemed a bit… wanting."

Disregarding nearly all of John's sentence after the confirmation, Sherlock went straight to the front door, shoved his shirttails into his trousers, and threw on his more familiar scarf and coat. "When did you give him the address?"

"This afternoon."

"When?!"

"Um, I called him after he got back from his lunch break so… one? He said he had to finish up some paperwork first and would head out after."

"Call this time…. No. No, don't call. Text. Text him again to confirm his... no." Sherlock froze and scrunched his eyes shut, placing his fingers on either side of his temples.

John had a moment of deja vu— it was the same expression Sherlock had worn whilst searching his mind palace for any possible way to disconnect a bomb.

He opened his eyes. “ _Text him that we are on the way._ "

"Sherlock?" John pulled out his mobile.

"Say we are nearly there and bringing reinforcements. Do it now!"

"I _am_. And while I'm doing it… what the fuck is going on?"

"I'll explain on the way. I haven't been back there in years for a reason, John."

John hastily grabbed his coat and tucked his gun into his waistband before Sherlock even mentioned it, and they were in the street. "I know you haven’t. I know you’ve been clean, but… we both agreed it was definitely something we couldn't rule out. Not after all you've been through with—. well… we thought we should check." 

"Because everyone thinks I'm just that unstable?" Sherlock grumbled. He practically jumped in front of a cab.

"No, because when your coping mechanism has always been to forget—"

Sherlock interrupted John impatiently, but spoke the address slowly and deliberately to the driver. John continued afterward, unfazed, "—and someone has forced you to remember, things can... be difficult. You were quieter than usual, and then when you just took off, we were concerned."

"We can talk about how pathetic everyone finds my coping skills later. Lestrade has walked right into a highly dangerous situation. To say Alec Cunningham hates policemen doesn't even begin to—" He leaned toward the plexiglass partition and pressed a badge against the window. "Police business. How fast can this thing go?" 

"Should we actually call for backup?"

"No. I think as few of us as possible would be the best approach. And... fuck!"

It wasn't that Sherlock never cursed. It was.... No... Sherlock never cursed. Not like that. John took a deep breath.

"I didn't have you grab supplies. An emergency kit. Something. I should have thought to..."

"I can stabilize someone without all that. Didn't always have it at hand. Knowing what we are walking into will help."

"I stopped using that den as a bolthole because it was under new management, so to speak. Billy saw the changes coming too, which was why he was so keen to leave the place. The man who was quickly rising to a position of authority didn't get there through skill or intelligence, or even scheming or connections. He got there on pure fear. No one dared cross him. Rumours flew round about the one or two who had. People either avoided him or gave him exactly what he wanted as a means of self-preservation. Most criminals have a certain approach that works well for them. A bit of… humanity to tap into to win favour or loyalty, or simply to get information. Not Alec Cunningham. He was impossible to work with— far too unpredictable in his moods. Well, I say unpredictable, but there were a few constants. He loved demonstrating his superiority nearly as much as he hated policemen. He considered them hypocritical bastards who needed to be taken down. I've seen what he has done to people he felt needed to be taken down. I am working under the assumption that he confiscated Lestrade’s mobile early on and will see the texts. I can only hope he chooses to abandon the den quickly. And to leave Lestrade there." 

Sherlock checked his watch and didn't say another word until they arrived at the dilapidated building. John had checked his as well. Going on five. He had been in there a couple of hours, at the very least. The door was still loose on its hinges from where Sherlock had once kicked it open. This time, John broke it down with his shoulder. 

The place was empty, and even though Sherlock had said that that had been his hope, he remained disturbed by the absolute silence. If he had taken Lestrade with him, chances of survival would have plummeted. No, no, they would leave him there and take off. That made the most sense.

"Should we split up, or is that just asking for trouble? It seems like no one is here."

"If he is here, he is likely gagged or unconscious. You take upstairs. We need to find him quickly."

The building looked even worse for wear now, as if that were even possible. The walls were crumbling as before but the edges where ceiling met wall were marked with water stains and falling plaster. Sherlock turned the corners with care, scanning the room and finding nothing but old mattresses and broken glassware that crunched beneath his feet. He made his way slowly back toward the stairs.

The light was just starting to fade when Sherlock heard John's voice. A muffled curse followed by a steady stream of reassurances that he would be okay. That everyone was gone now. That an ambulance was already on the way.

The relief hit Sherlock even harder than the worry had. He had been too focused on finding Lestrade… Greg… to feel anything but determination. He leaned against the crumbling wall and forced himself back into his previous state of tense vigilance; he was located, but still far from safe.

The next seven minutes seemed like an eternity. John travelled along with the paramedics, assisting, and Sherlock found himself having to connect back to a main road before he was able to hail a cab. It was fine. He wasn't needed at this point. He walked quickly, his long stride and agitated pace covering ground at a rapid clip. He got to the hospital in time to be informed Lestrade had been through triage and was just now being wheeled to a prep room off Emergency. He could wait here for an update from the medical team. Sherlock could tell if there was, in fact, any news to be had, this grizzled nurse would not be providing him with it. He sat down in an orange plastic chair and stretched out his legs. 

The moment he saw John turn the corner, Sherlock sprang to his feet and darted down the hall.

"John, they refuse to discuss the matter with me. What have they done so far?"

"Not quite as much blood loss as it looked like, so no transfusion. Bunch of stitches is all, for now. Scheduled an MRI. His Hep B is current, so the standard... Ceftriaxone, Azithromycin."

"And PEP?"

"Antiretrovirals aren't standard for--"

"Make them do PEP. Zidovudine, Lamivudine...and Indinavir."

"Sherlock, that's far more controversial...a rather aggressive prophylactic regimen which risks kidney damage. Most don't tolerate it well, and--"

"John. I know his prison record, I know who he used to shoot up with, and I also know his sexual habits. Add them. Please."

"TDF, Emtricitabine, RAL. Every hour counts." John headed back to the conference room at a run.

A junior constable gathered Lestrade's clothing from the hospital room, where it was already sitting in a bright yellow, sealed plastic bag. Sherlock couldn't help but want to grab the bag from his hands and throw some pieces of stained clothing under a microscope, but he already knew exactly what combination of fluids he was likely to find. Unnecessary. And likely disruptive. The Yard would want to secure their own evidence in this instance. He would only be in the way.


	2. Chapter 2

Gloves in pockets. Hang up coat and scarf. 

The abandoned experiment needs tending to. If it isn’t rinsed soon, the precipitate will adhere to the glass. It would be wise to clean it now rather than later.

I head toward the sofa.

John has it absolutely right. Normally, I'd wipe the slate clean. Literally. There is no way of knowing how many times I have done some form of this when I deemed things impossible to handle. 

I fall into place.

I suppose it is a moral failure, this avoidance of accountability. Victor is dead because of me— but in my defense, it was in everyone's best interest that I forgot it all. And forgetting Eurus was also the closest thing to revenge I could have managed at the time. It did infuriate her. Magnussen endangered John because of me, and now Magnussen is _dead_ because of me. Mycroft has taken it upon himself to erase that truth. Even a random assassin is dead simply because he touched me in the street. Of course, given his profession, any trace of him is long gone. Mary is dead because of me. I didn't erase her. I have tried to live with it. To face whatever consequences it brings. It is in John's and Rosie's best interest that Mary’s memory never fades; that her place is respected. 

I have never before had occasion to see myself as a pariah. Ostracised, yes, but…. 

Greg was moments from death because of me.

My first instinct remains to delete. But I won’t. Or, possibly, can’t. After being so blindsided by Eurus, I no longer see that ability as anything but a weakness to be exploited. Which leaves me to _process_ , like some tedious therapy client. And now, I am bombarded with endless accountability.

Because of me. 

I was once a neutral force. I solved my little puzzles, looked for patterns, did my part. You could even have called me benevolent. But after the slightest consideration, it is readily apparent more people are now harmed by my existence than helped by it. It's a rather long list. I’d been handling Victor rather well, I thought. All things considered. And of course John was in exactly the same situation for exactly the same reason. Always fun to go through an identical trauma twice. I’m still weighing out whether Eurus had meant it as a gift for me. A sort of apology, in her own way. After all, I had been afforded the opportunity to relive the experience and change the outcome. 

I managed to move forward. Slowly, but steadily. Until I felt that even if my friendship still seemed a risky prospect, the sources of that risk had been neutralised. Moriarty and Magnussen are dead. My sister, though I am fairly certain she could escape if she wished, has chosen not to do so. It seems to have been her own decision, based on her own unique sense of justice. Or perhaps it would be better to call it balance. 

I was beginning to feel as if I had a place once more; that is, until this latest variation on the theme. I had even been visiting with Rosie on occasion. She is fascinating, always learning new things. Lately, it is object permanence. For her, if something isn't directly in front of her, it might as well not exist. I find myself wishing to test this on adults as well. If I am not around, will it be as if I do not exist? And what if I didn't? Exist, that is. I can't help but think so many people would be the better for it.

The cigarettes I keep beneath the sofa are in plain view, and because John is well aware of them I am confident he would never think to search here for anything else. The case is positioned so I can access it without leaving a horizontal position; I find that works best. I don’t even have to hide it now, but I prefer not to think about that fact— so I have left it in place, secured to the underside of the frame. 

John thinks I turn to this for self-medication: for the ongoing voices in my head, for the inability to shut off the constant input of relentless stimuli. This is not entirely accurate. Most of the time, I can rise above it, like a surfer navigating atop the ocean waves. If I move too slowly, though, I start to sink. The question I once posed to him was, will caring about them save them? I suppose the better way of putting it would have been that not caring about them will save me.

I always schedule my dosages carefully, because it has never been my intent to actually die. Merely to coast for a while. If I wanted to die, I'd leave Mycroft something besides a list. So far, I’ve never failed to leave one. I suppose a promise is a promise. But if I did want to die, a broken promise would hardly matter.

I wasn't bluffing when I told John he had two weeks. 

Starting... now. 

That is about as long as I can manage to hide it. I actually believe it’s more like three, but I’m well enough acquainted with the impaired judgment that accompanies addiction to know I'm not going to be entirely accurate in my assessment. It will seem to me as if I am doing an excellent job at concealment, but I won't be. 

I regret telling him I would only be in a bolthole if I wanted to be found. It is the absolute truth… and I do want to be found. Eventually. I want to be missed and I want to be searched for and I want to be found and I want to be shown I am worth the search. That I feel this way should disqualify me from being worthy of it.

I never begin with the intent for it to take over, but I'm also wise enough to the process to know it will. It’s just that by then I won't care. And that is actually what I'm truly after. I miss not caring. I miss having the scope of my life narrowed down to have I taken another hit yet or not? That is the new rhythm I create. Where that becomes the only thought I have. The only pattern for which to look.


	3. Chapter 3

"So....how are you?" John took a seat in the bright blue vinyl chair beside Greg’s bed.

Greg smiled and used his less damaged arm to slowly slide the suitably-cheerful bouquet he had been examining out of the way when John rose and pushed the rollaway table to the side. He gestured at John, using the tiny card he still held within his fingers— recently removed from the green, plastic holder tucked amidst the Baby’s Breath. ‘To Gerald’ was clearly visible on the envelope.

"You can tell him it doesn't work anymore. I know,” _waggle_ , “he knows my name. I know,” _waggle_ , he uses it all the time when I'm not around. And I know,” _waggle_ , “he cares."

John gave him a curt nod. "I'll pass it on next time I see him."

"Next time? You two still fighting about something? I thought you were finally resolving it?"

"'It’ implies there is only one thing.”

Greg narrowed his eyes and gave a knowing smile, as John continued, struggling to maintain a casual tone.

“And I thought we were, too, until he wandered off on his own again like I didn't matter one bit. Though God knows I should be used to that by now.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to brush it off, but it was clear the thought still made a permanent home in John’s head. “Seems a ridiculous question to ask, doesn't it— ‘How are you'?"

"Yeah. It does. But at least you’re willing to hear a real answer.” He sat up a bit straighter in bed. “Nurse came in again yesterday, after the usual check, and started me on some new medication. They were quite thorough before— to the point of overkill, really— about what they were giving me and why, but she clammed right up on this one. I may not know all these different medications and what they do, but I can tell when someone knows more than they’re letting on. She just called it ‘an addition to the previous preventative medication’. What is it?"

"An addition to your previous preventative medication."

"Very funny. Next you will tell me the ‘ART therapy’ notation they added to my chart means I'm getting a shiny, new box of crayons starting tomorrow morning."

John pulled the chair closer. "It's an antiretroviral. Antiretroviral therapy. You got the dose later than the others because it isn't standard protocol to receive preventative medication for HIV. It's considered rare to contract any STIs, unless there is a considerable amount of bleeding. You qualify on that count."

Greg nodded.

"Or multiple assailants."

"Glad that doesn't apply in this case." Greg continued, more quietly. "Said he'd consider it. Didn't get around to it, I guess."

John swallowed and thought perhaps it would be better to move back to the more medical, and less personal, details— through it remained far from easy to discuss. "Even then, it's a rare enough occurence that preventative treatment isn't always recommended. It does have some potentially dangerous side effects. We are monitoring for those."

"And they are convinced I am just that unlucky?"

John’s mouth tightened and he shook his head. "No. Sherlock knows who did this, and he is aware of his status. Cunningham has been HIV positive for a long time."

Greg didn't respond. He attempted to look unaffected, but the spike in his pulse rate gave him away. He turned toward the heart-monitor-turned-informant and sighed.

"The medication will block it. We're well within the 72-hour window of efficacy. It isn't 100 percent effective, more like 80, but that’s only because many of those studies were done using another medication, not the one you’re on. Yours has far fewer side effects. And because the other drug was more reactive, some study participants didn't take it for the full 28 days. And also, some started it too late; many people don't go in for treatment until the window has already closed. Sometimes they were still being held in captivity, other times they just... didn't go see a doctor for a while."

Greg nodded. "Done enough trainings to know that's how it goes. I told myself I would never hide anything like that if it were to ever happen to me. Never thought there was a chance it actually would, though. Pretty easy to say when it's strictly hypothetical."

"I think... well, as much as you shouldn't feel guilty, or blame yourself, I think everyone more or less does."

"Yeah. Should have been more alert. More attuned to my surroundings. I've told my share of victims that sometimes it just isn't possible, and the blame doesn't belong to them, but.... Well, I see now that it's just there anyway. Logic be damned."

"You're going to be okay. You're doing amazing, truly. And it'll still be okay when it all goes to hell for a while, too."

"I expect it will. Sometime. Bound to get worse before it gets better.” Greg's easy manner shifted to something bordering on anxiety. "You said Sherlock knows who did this. Knows him well enough to know his HIV status. They… he wasn't... like… his dealer or anything was he? Operating out of that same--"

"No. No,” John interrupted. “Not anyone he had that sort of, um, relationship with. It’s not even the same one who ran the house back when he was over there. That guy left and this new one, Alec Cunningham, took over. That's… well, that's part of why Sherlock crossed that location off his bolthole list. He knew Cunningham was one to avoid. The other reason being his determination to stay clean. He says."

"So, you are saying that Sherlock—"

Waiting for the rest of Greg's response, John braced himself. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of the same mixture of anxiety and remorse Sherlock had displayed earlier. Searching for him had been both extremely dangerous and completely unnecessary. Sherlock hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really. But he had set this chain of events in motion, and now that Greg realises Sherlock was never in there— not for years— he’ll probably— 

“— saved my life."

John's lip twitched and he nodded. "We don't know if Cunningham was receiving treatment, or what his viral load was, but if he contracted it some time ago, odds are he was on medication. It might not have been transferable at all, but that isn't a risk anyone is willing to take. Sherlock thinks he may enjoy infecting policemen in particular. Sherlock wasn't saying much, so I looked his case up myself. Apparently, about thirty years ago he was with this woman, Annie something-or-other, and he had intimidated her pretty badly. A friend of hers, name was Kirwan, worked for Cunningham, tried to help her leave and wound up dead. Cunningham’s father apparently helped him kill the friend, and when they were questioned the old man cracked under pressure and confessed it all. He died before the trial. He was old, yeah, but not that old. Pretty clear Alec did it. Annie got out though, and started seeing a policeman, who encouraged her to press physical and sexual assault charges. Another woman joined in after she filed the lawsuit.”

Greg nodded. "And this time, it stuck."

"Yeah.”

“I take it no one had suggested either of the women take antiretrovirals?”

John blinked. No. No one would have thought to have advocated on their behalf. “I’ll contact them and advise they get tested. They need to be informed.” Their names should be in the trial transcript. “He claims he caught it in prison, serving time for those charges, and holds all police officers personally responsible. Sherlock says that is inconclusive, that he had shared needles for years before— and since. But… just to clarify. Even if you are… even if--"

"Even if I am in the 20%, it isn't fatal. Yeah, I mean… I know that. But for people my age, I guess it will always feel like it is. So many deaths."

“We’ve come a long way.”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence.

“I suppose I should answer, huh.”

“Answer?”

“How I am.”

“Only if you want to.” John filled in the empty space with more talk. “Your radius and ulna are fractured in your left arm and badly bruised on your right. Blocked a blow from something heavy?” Sherlock would have recited the entire sequence of events based on the probable causes of the injuries, just to confirm he had it right. Or maybe not. Maybe he had learned something akin to tact. John wondered if he just hadn’t, in fact, done the exact same thing. It was as if he and Sherlock had somehow switched places. He shouldn’t continue this train of thought out loud. Greg didn’t need to be reminded the injuries to his forearms were likely blocked blows and those to his knees and wrists were typical of being thrown forward onto a concrete floor. He found himself retreating to the safety of medical terminology.

“Yup.”

“Your right knee looks like a displaced fracture. The left isn’t nearly as bad. I know we’re having an orthopaedic surgeon coming in this afternoon, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to put a plate in the right one, but either way you are looking at surgery to correct the misalignment. Knees are tricky. Your body is your own worst enemy there; the thigh muscles on top of the patella are strong enough to pull the broken pieces out of place as you are trying to heal. They are gonna keep a brace on it for a long time. Till then, we are looking at a wheelchair, with your leg extended. I can’t remember if your flat is on the upper floor—”

“No, lower. Grateful for that.”

John nodded.

“I’m… the staff has suggested I lie on my left side, so there's no pressure on the top of my right knee, and also none on my stitches.” Greg was flat on his back. “Hurts a bit more this way, but worth it to not face away from the door. And...to not feel so exposed.” He closed his eyes for moment, then opened them again. “It’s not that bad, actually, but, I’m on a ton of medication at the moment, and I am afraid there might be issues if I take too much. They tell me not to worry, but I worry anyway. Should I worry, John?”

“Not for a few days, no. Long term...yes. Avoid opioids at home. While you are still in hospital you will be fine.”

“The rest can wait for my therapist.”

“Do you want to wait for a therapist?”

“Not particularly, no. Not… if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I slept fine yesterday. Wasn’t expecting that. Thought I’d be having nightmares, but I just fell right asleep and can't remember a single dream. I usually get bad dreams after particularly violent crime scenes. So what I want to find out is… I am in shock?Or… numb? Am I processing this thing all wrong somehow?”

“Maybe you’re having them, but the medication is interfering with your sleep cycle so you’re forgetting them. More likely it’s just exhaustion. You are anxious, yes, but you are also _tired_. The anxiety masks your need for rest. And if you’re numb for a while, that serves a purpose. Let it happen. Be numb for a while. You just asked after the health and welfare of two women you know nothing about. I’d say you haven’t lost any emotional depth or compassion.”

“So, when I go _off_ the heavy stuff? What happens then?”

“Some of it will come back to you. Parts of it may be lost, though.” John slid forward in his chair. “Look. Not the same thing, but… to the degree that trauma is trauma.… I don’t remember getting shot. I do remember lying in the dirt, not quite able to move, waiting for someone to make their way over. What I remember best was looking up and seeing the mountain range cutting into the sky. Voices in the background— maybe calling my name, maybe not— and the shape of those mountains. I forgot all about the physical pain. What I remember, even now, was what it felt like to wait, wondering if anyone saw me fall or if they would just move forward and assume I was right behind them. If they’d move on and leave me to die, alone in the desert, unable to move— even though it made no sense. My legs should have been perfectly fine. The injury was to my shoulder.”

Greg closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Any time. About anything. It’s the bedside manner bit combined with a hefty dose of life experience. I’m pretty good at listening, and I even know what I’m talking about.”

“Hope the therapist they assign me is this easy to talk to.”

John chuckled. Greg parted his lips slightly, as if he was starting to speak, but closed them again.

“Nothing you say can faze me. I’ve heard battlefield confessions from dying men, Greg.”

Greg chuckled and then winced.

“Yeah, push a pillow into your abdomen, that helps.” John got up, grabbed one from a storage cabinet, and handed it to Greg. “They don’t teach you how to laugh in here. They should. Everything is funnier after a brush with death. Anything else?” 

Greg stared at the pillow. “It’s fine. I don’t need to talk about it.”

John turned away to give him some illusion of personal space in the small hospital room, and looked at the collection of the flowers by the window and said, “It’s about the rape, isn’t it.”

“Yeah.”

“Never been through it, but I’ve talked to people who have.” He turned back to face him, but avoided eye contact. “More common in military settings than civilians would expect. Men and women. Most of the victims I talked to were male. They brought in female counselors for the women. That leaves the doctor and the chaplain. And I’m sure you’re not surprised some people didn't want to have that conversation with the chaplain.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. But, sometimes you might feel more comfortable talking if the person isn’t also your friend. That’s up to you.”

“I’ll...give it some thought.”

John stared at the monitors. The flowing lines and steady, muted beep was almost hypnotic. 

“John?”

John was slow to respond and gave himself a quick head shake before saying, “yeah,” in response.

“My turn to ask you how you are doing. Seems like being here is reminding you of something. When Sherlock was in hospital?”

“No. No, not everything is about Sherlock you know.”

Except it was. Just not in the way Greg thought.

Greg leaned forward to peek at his mobile.“Almost nine. Expecting a few visitors this morning, now that the floodgates are open.”

“Should I clear some space for more flowers?”

“Flowers always feel congratulatory. Like I had a baby or something. I told Sally to bring me coffee and donuts instead.” Greg twisted his face up in mock disgust. “Decaf for me, I know. But I can offer them to people who visit me instead of them giving me things instead. Seems like they’re the ones who deserve a reward for coming here to see me. And she’s bringing me a few case files.” 

John raised his eyebrows. 

“What? Is Sherlock the only one allowed to peruse case files when he’s bored?”

“No, but he’s probably the only one who can still think clearly with a boatload of painkillers in his system. I’ll be back when they do the next consult. Likely just past noon.”

“See you then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know about UK stats, but in the US military rape is so very frequent, is extremely underreported, and leads to much retaliation for pressing charges and even has two different types of reporting, depending on how far you choose to pursue justice for your own safety. It is an issue for both men and women. A friend of mine who is a military spouse also confirmed how widespread a problem this is. (See GQ article in the September 2014 issue with the title “Son, Men Don’t Get Raped" for an examination of male-male rape specifically.)


	4. Chapter 4

He left the hospital room. Further down the hallway, once he was well out of Greg’s range of vision, John leaned his back against the wall and took a deep breath. He was spending far too much time in places like this lately. It was a ridiculous thought for anyone, let alone a doctor, though John had worked exclusively in clinics in recent years— a long enough time away from a proper hospital to have nearly forgotten the differences. Here, scores of patients were trapped in their rooms like prison cells, chained in place by IVs. 

Practically anyone could see there was some core issue he needed to address. It couldn't be any more obvious John was actually the one feeling trapped if he had started dreaming of locked rooms and blocked-off alleyways. Probably lingering memories of his long hospital confinement, whilst they treated a gunshot wound and subsequent infection. Or maybe this all stemmed from something a bit more recent, having witnessed Sherlock on the brink of death twice now, unable to do anything but sit and wait. There were even older memories circling his brain, too — of his mother in hospital, his holding her hand, her inability to return the grasp. He had once believed those disjointed images were from Harry’s birth, but he knew now that would have been impossible. He and Harry weren’t far enough apart. The memory was a hazy one, and the more he tried to examine it the more it ran away from him, until he’d given up. That had proved a relief.

Regardless of its origin, the reaction was still irrational and petty. This was not all about him. John would win this battle. He was here now, and he would stay here— and focus on Greg’s progress— until the feeling was beaten into submission. Greg was his friend. His friend who both needed and deserved his help. And if that wasn't reason enough, John would stay out of sheer bloody-mindedness. 

He'd done a sort of bedside vigil with Sherlock that first time, alternating with Mary- although he noted with a sort of weary acceptance that she had had additional motivation for her monitoring. For a while there, no one thought Sherlock would make it. But Greg was doing well— better than he should be doing, in fact— and that same round-the-clock watch was hardly necessary. And of course on Sherlock’s second go in hospital, things were different. John had found reasons to be elsewhere. Mostly Rosie-related reasons, he had once told himself and anyone else who would care to listen. Well, by now he knew that wasn't the case, since Rosie has always had a regular sitter and back-ups, and they were all thrilled to spend time with her. 

Couldn’t feel the same way about monitoring injuries you had a hand in inflicting. 

Mary had managed it when she had shot him, though; she had watched with a keen eye in case Sherlock regained consciousness long enough to tell anyone what had actually happened. When he finally had come to see Sherlock in Smith’s Hospital of Death, John couldn’t help but wonder much the same thing— what Sherlock would mention to others and what he would artfully leave out. If someone were to have come to arrest him for some sort of domestic— no, just assault. For assault. Sherlock had every right, but John had known he wouldn’t.

Culverton Smith may have witnessed the whole thing, but it was John who had made sure the attending physician had known the scope of the injuries to Sherlock’s already damaged body. He’d simply stated Sherlock had been in a fight recently as well, and to be sure to check for any physical damage that might not have been explained adequately by prolonged drug use. He didn’t admit to knowing who had done it, not until he spoke to Greg and confessed he had hit him pretty damn hard. Smith seemed to love the whole concept of confession, but John was less than enthusiastic. It had been to stop him from killing an innocent… or so he thought at the time. Surely that was a good reason? This time around, why mattered a lot less than how. 

Exactly how he’d stopped Sherlock wasn’t clear, though he wasn't about to pretend he hadn’t been aware of what he was doing. Still, the medical records had been a sobering summarization. Sherlock hadn’t even tried to protect himself. Maybe he couldn’t have. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to. John had been angry at him for that. Angry, because it wouldn't have been nearly as bad if Sherlock had only…. He remembered how he’d looked down to find his fist clenching and unclenching involuntarily and had stared at it before bringing his focus upward to Sherlock’s face, then back down to his fist again. Once John had consulted with the staff and been assured Sherlock was on the road to recovery, he had decided he wouldn’t be coming back for a return visit. 

That Sherlock wasn’t awake when he visited had felt like an undeserved blessing. John hadn’t been willing to speak to him. About anything, really. He hadn’t even wanted to look into those eyes, or give him the opportunity to read what he was thinking. Not this time. He’d leave him something —some memento of how important his friend had once been to him, how monumental in the course of his life— and surely Sherlock Holmes would figure out the rest. Something he could see, once he was fully cognisant, that would explain it all. 

His cane, of course. He’d give him his cane. 

Well. As it turned out, Sherlock had anticipated it. Every step. Knew what kind of person he truly was and exactly what he would do. _Yes, I was exactly that predictable._ Sherlock had depended on him to do the wrong thing, and John had delivered. John still couldn’t fathom how he knew, though. Sherlock _had_ to have thought that had been the real Faith. It couldn’t have been a ploy to get John to…. Sherlock had looked so utterly lost. It _had_ to have been real.... or…. well.... 

John shook it off, before he got lost trying to figure out what Sherlock had known when, and went to grab some coffee from the canteen. What was done was done, and he and Sherlock were slowly finding some sort of peace with it. Mostly by ignoring large chunks of their history. It was good enough. John still dropped in occasionally. Whenever he was anywhere near Baker Street he invariably would find himself at the door of his former flat. Once or twice he had walked in on a meeting with a client, and Sherlock seemed eager for him to stay and listen. Sherlock would tell him about recent cases, and once he even had come up with the solution in the process, freezing in mid-sentence and then ignoring him and texting furiously. It was rude, but it was a comforting sort of rude. He missed it.

He and Sherlock were doing much better, until he had gone off on whateverthehell case that was for damn near two weeks without so much as a word. Not that John could have joined him, of course. His sitter had been doing a student exchange in Germany. Still was, as a matter of fact. He tried to tell himself Sherlock somehow knew this, and that was why he hadn't asked for John to join him. In fact, if ever there were a time to claim he truly couldn’t visit the hospital because of Rosie, this would have been it. Instead, he was actively seeking alternatives, determined to stay by Greg’s side until he was not only physically recovered, but psychologically as well. If he had been a horrible friend to Sherlock, at least he could be a good one to Greg. 

He knew he had no right to ask her again. Not after that last time, when she had cancelled a date in order to take care of Rosie when the sitter tripped on the outside stair and broke her wrist. Yet, John still found himself ringing Molly. 

"Hi, John! You need me to keep an eye on my favourite little angel?" His heart sank at her all-too-correct assumption. When was the last time he called Molly just to talk to Molly? He very nearly didn't ask. Maybe he should just say he hadn't seen her in a while and was just saying hello. Right. As if she'd never see through that. 

"Ummm. If you can. I don't know if you've heard, but, Greg is, well..."

"I did," Molly interrupted. "Not the specifics, but I heard he was in hospital and stable, and that you were looking after him. I know Emily's still away, and Mrs Hudson doesn't much like to do more than a few hours, so I was actually about to call you myself and offer."

"Well, I can come home at night, so... if you are busy, or want to go out..."

"I... oh! Oh, John, that whole thing with my date with... Oh, I never did tell you how watching Rosie saved me from a very bad relationship, did I?"

"No. No, you didn’t."

"My dad always said you can tell a lot about a person by how they act when things don't go according to plan. And when I told him I'd have to reschedule, he got mad at me. Disappointed makes sense, but angry? Mad at me for helping a friend when something unexpected comes up? It wasn't as if it was something with fancy tickets that couldn’t be done again— it was just dinner— but even if it was fancy tickets.... I have saved myself a lot of bad relationships breaking up with people who did that sort of thing. Maybe it means I don’t have anyone all that special right now, but... no relationship beats a bad one anytime. So, I am grateful, in a way. But I don't even have anyone to test this time around by cancelling on them. I’m just watching telly and relaxing with Toby. Bit bored, actually. Good thing I don’t shoot walls, right?"

John laughed.

"And I wouldn’t lie about liking to spend time with her. I really do enjoy it! Might be easier if she can just stay here with me while Greg is on the mend, though, since picking her up and dropping her back is kind of difficult, with the car in the shop again."

"Oh? What's wrong with it?"

"Just time for new brakes. Nothing serious."

"I can help pay for the—“

"Oh, no! And even so, she isn't charging me anything. Well, except for the pads themselves, but I've got that covered. Usually, she just shows me how to fix things myself, but this time she said we couldn't just take it on in the driveway, so I brought it in. She helps me with her job, I help her with mine. Fair trade!"

"You help her with... dissections?"

Molly laughed. "I let her daughter use the microscope after hours. Though, I did do taxidermy once, on a fish."


	5. Chapter 5

Of all the things I have deleted over the years you’d think, during a happier time when I had momentarily thought sobriety worthwhile, I would have deleted my dealer’s number. From my mobile, yes— ages ago— but it always remains accessible in my head. Evidence that I never did wish to quit synthetic happiness entirely, long after Mycroft bought my cooperation with a promise of access to a veritable cornucopia of cold cases at Scotland Yard.

While I was in recovery, he’d intimidated poor Simon, who wouldn’t go anywhere near me anymore. When I returned to my habit, I had to find someone new. To be honest, I’m still rather upset about that. Simon was not to blame— everything he provided had been requested by someone else, after all. It wasn’t his decision, nor his responsibility. And his product was certain to be of excellent quality. Now I have to go through the extra effort of testing it myself with these newer, unreliable sources— like Cunningham’s predecessor. I would never have crossed paths with a small-time thug like Cunningham had Mycroft not scared Simon away.

As I toss the tourniquet to the floor, there is a moment of sudden and piercing regret: I should have made a fire first. For when I start to come back down. 

I’ll be too tired to make one at that point... and a bit shaky. It won’t be the cold that will make me shiver, but I could convince myself it was, if I could only edge closer to a blazing fire. And people say drug users never think of the future! Well, I suppose I was a tad late.

Though cocaine is far better for the work, morphine has narrowly edged it out as my favourite. Early on in its history, morphine had gained a solid reputation as a substitute for opium, but turned out to be even more addictive than its antecedent. Again, the cure proves worse than the disease. I think I prefer my old, familiar disease, now that my cure has proven less than effective—my experiment with _health_ , a failure. Why not lose one’s self in a world which offers actual comfort? I will tell you why not. Because when I come back down, it is far worse. I am even more out of sync, paranoid, delusional... and I can't hold it together well. The solution is a surprisingly simple one. Don’t come down. 

You’d think it impossible, but it really isn't. It's chasing after greater and greater highs that kills people. I use drugs. I don't abuse them.

Cocaine is a stimulant. Morphine is a depressant. When combined correctly, your reward is a euphoric rush which supersedes the negative aspects of both drugs if they were to be administered separately. Morphine nicely balances cocaine’s paranoia, which anti-drug crusaders make so much of. Paranoia is an acceptable concession, in any case. When alone it is workable, and even easily counteracted. I know no one is out to get me; no one cares enough for that. It also removes the palpitations and hypertension— which are truly an issue. As for the morphine, the sedation factor is greatly reduced, so you won’t sleep through the best part. In short— the perfect high.

The problem with this stellar combination is once you get rid of the negative side-effects you can easily fool yourself into thinking you haven't taken all that much… and then take more. 

If you are an idiot. 

I am always well aware of my dosage. And how high my tolerance is. It is not as much as it once was, certainly, but I am capable of guiding myself through safely, by understanding the science of it. 

Due to structural differences, the effect of the cocaine does not last as long as that of the morphine. Therefore, if the morphine in the mix is too high, once the cocaine is suddenly out of the picture, no longer tempering the depressant, you have a problem. A user can navigate these waters. An addict cannot. Slowing down my brain is a good thing. Slowing down my lungs… not so much. The danger lies in thinking things are going well until it is too late. I could wax poetic on the aptness of the metaphor, but the cold, hard fact remains— that is how you die, approaching it incorrectly. You have to respect the drugs.

My list of what I took and when, carefully balanced, lies upon the kitchen table. I do still make one automatically... out of habit, not necessity… or even out of a lingering obligation… which is, fortunate, I suppose, because dying isn’t the goal. 

Dying. Dying… is too easy. I’ve already done it twice. Inexorably dull, doing the same thing twice. Even saying the same thing twice. Repetitive. And dull. Rewriting the past. Rehearsing for the future. Should be more surprises. There are people who have horrible things done to them. And then there are people who do horrible things to themselves. And here’s the world, watching, with its shortage of obliging heroes.

God, you _are_ a drama queen, aren't you? No wonder he leaves. Probably for good. Oh, but he did already, didn’t take. Probably for good, or is that just the paranoia? Perhaps a slight adjustment is required.

I shiver. No. Not cold. See. I do know what’s coming. Don’t worry about me, no. It’s more like a tremor. Not like John's. Okay, maybe a bit. John is an addict too, after all. Become what you are. What you were born to do. And, not born, exactly. Made. My God you can still philosophise on this, so, it's not nearly enough, then, is it? More like created. Because when you look at it all, how can it all ever be anything but too much? Too much of everything. All too much. Which one is it... the morphine, or the cocaine? You've forgotten, haven't you? Good. Forgetting is good too. It’s fine. They’re fine, feelings. This one right here isn’t bad, at least. How much? When? You have a list somewhere. You always have a list.


	6. Chapter 6

“You’ve been spending all your free time here. Go home. Rosie needs you more than I do. I’m just, sitting around waiting for bones to mend.”

“I will, I will! Molly watched Rosie at her place the first couple of days— worked better for her that way— and now she’s at mine till I come home. Usually right after dinner. Rosie still has night and day mixed up, so believe me, she and I are getting plenty of quality time. Though I have to say that for her, quality time involves wailing and chewing on frozen grapes in a mesh sack while I bounce her on my shoulder.”

“Ah. Teething.”

“Yeah, what’s a few more sleepless nights? Rest is for the weak! Except where you are concerned. You need yours.”

“Oh, I’ve been doing nothing _but_ resting. The meds make me drowsy and there isn’t even any interesting daytime telly to get sucked into.” 

“Those cold cases not going particularly well?”

“They’re cold for a reason. I mean, I texted Sherlock… invited him to go over some with me. No shame in admitting it to you… it’s fascinating watching him work. There’s some kinda index of every major crime committed in the last few centuries filed away in that brain of his— he’s always saying there's nothing new under the sun. Once, he was deep into a cold file when all of a sudden he shouts out “Swamp Jasmine!” and bolts for the door. Got a text later.” Greg waved his wrapped arm in an awkward yet grand gesture, as if Sherlock’s text had been on a movie marquee. ‘Confirmed. See Doyle, A.C., “Gelseminum as a Poison,” British Medical Journal’. Then he goes and types the year, too—eighteen seventy something!”

John couldn’t help but smile, “Any luck?”

Greg shrugged. “He never replied. Had better things to do, I guess.”

John mumbled, “Or he’s still avoiding you.”

“Hospitals are never a fun place to hang out. I understand.”

“Not here… you.” He looked directly at Greg. He needed to know this. “He might feel… a bit to blame. It having been his bolthole and all.”

Greg looked puzzled for a moment before nodding. “He seems to be feeling accountable for a hell of a lot of stuff lately. When I said he was a good man, I wasn’t basing that on willingness to take responsibility for other people’s actions. Besides, going into drug dens is in the job description. He should know that. He's done the same thing often enough. And it isn't even his job. Technically.”

“Yeah, true. How’s the pain?”

“Sherlock is still hanging out at his flat. I assume he’s doing fine.” Greg winked. “Oh, you mean _that_ pain.”

John chuckled.

“Not as bad as I thought it’d be. Pretty manageable at the moment. They’re still deciding when to send me over to rehab. I’m hearing it might be tomorrow, since the surgery was a success, the hard part’s over, and all I need now is time. Well, time and loads of upper body work, so I can get around with only one usable leg. Been told that part will hurt more. Actually using the thing.”

“About six weeks before it’s bendable again.”

“Yeah. But. How am I supposed to use my arms to transfer into and out of a wheelchair when one of them’s in a partial cast?”

“Can’t.”

“Thought not. So I’m stuck wherever someone puts me until I can move around better, right?”

John modified the flippant answer. “Ok, I mean, it’s difficult, but not impossible. Rehab will teach you some mobility techniques. Plus, after you’ve strengthened your upper body you can put some weight on your arms; you just can’t twist them.” 

Greg frowned. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll like rehab. It’s like having your own personal trainer. Staff’ll love having you there. Most of their clients are old folks. You’ll be a fucking breath of fresh air.”

“Sounds _fun_.”

“Oh, but I left out the best part. Group therapy to keep you socially well-adjusted. You get to toss around a beach ball and when you catch it you tell everyone your celebrity crush, or something equally ‘sharey’.” John smiled broadly.

“Wonderful.” Greg looked down at his leg, wrapped up in black velcro in lieu of an actual cast, his kneecap still covered in gauze. “John. Can you get me out of it? I mean, let’s be realistic. Odds are I’m gonna feel a slightly different set of emotions during this whole recovery process than Grandpa Herbert with his broken hip.”

“As your personal physician, I’ll advise a counsellor as a suitable replacement.”

Greg sank back further into the bed and closed his eyes. “I owe you one.” Then he met John’s eyes without a trace of fear. “How long until I get the results back on the rest?”

“Three days. Then one more blood test down the road for final confirmation.”

“Okay. Now go on and get out of here. I want to do some high-quality alone-time self pitying.”

“Greg…”

“No, I'm only partially kidding about that. I do want to be alone for a bit, now that they aren’t fluttering around with surgical procedures and tests and more tests. I just, want quiet... without pressure to talk. Or even to think.”

“Sure. Sure, no problem. Thanks for letting me know. You know I want to help in any way I can.”

“Then pop in on Sherlock for me. Let him know it’s hard enough not blaming myself, though I somehow have managed not to, but it never even occurred to me to blame him, yeah? There's only one person who gets the blame here, and he will be found and dealt with. Plus, it’ll be entertaining to hear what Sherlock has to say. Give me something interesting to talk about.”

John nodded. Greg was right. It would be a good distraction, plus he really should go try and fix this. Sherlock needed to get his posh arse in here, and if he got stubborn about it, John would just have to spell out how avoidance wasn't in his long-term best interest. He told Greg he’d be back tomorrow morning. 

As he headed toward the street, John pulled his mobile out to text Sherlock but decided against it. Any advance notice and he'd probably be headed out to the morgue or someplace, just to avoid the conversation. He skipped the Tube in favour of a walk. The sun felt good on John’s shoulders, Greg was doing remarkably well, and he was confident he could patch things up between the two of them easily enough. Sherlock would eventually see the faulty logic in blaming himself, just as surely as John had seen the error in his having blamed Sherlock in the past. Of course Sherlock couldn't be expected to see that he wasn’t responsible for Greg’s assault right away. No, anger always clouds judgment. As does fear. Two emotions Sherlock probably wasn't exactly good at dealing with. Masking with contempt, yes. Processing...not so much.

As John passed a corner vendor, he bought a newspaper to catch up on anything Sherlock might be following in the headlines and wondered why Sherlock always seemed such an easy a target for blame. The problem, John concluded, as he cut through the park where he had met Mike years ago, was he was so frequently infallible. When something _did_ go wrong that had been unpreventable by the miracle which was Sherlock Holmes, it was fairly easy to be infuriated by his not having been superhuman. No, he was the most human human being...still. John smiled. Sherlock was alive, and Sherlock was pretty damn close to perfect. And he loved him. 

John pushed the thought out of his head, but it found its way back of its own volition. It was hardly a new revelation. He loved him. He loved him enough, John thought, as he turned onto Baker Street, to leave him be. He admitted to himself he had never been good at relationships, and this one was doomed. But he could still do the right thing… stand at the fringes of Sherlock’s life. Watch from the sidelines and cheer him on without getting close enough to wreck it all. To step back each time he felt the urge to push forward. Well. So much for the pleasant springtime stroll. But doing the right thing had always been a reward in and of itself. Back to the situation as it stood. 

Sherlock needed space to see things clearly, just as John did, and Sherlock had even seen fit to have taken that space by not visiting Greg in hospital. A gentle, well-worded reminder from John and things would be fine now.

John heard Sherlock’s voice ring out as he headed up the steps. “John! Well, that changes things!”

Pausing for a moment to yell back, “Changes what? What are you—“ John opened the door and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Your coming to visit was unexpected. That moves it forward considerably. The two weeks.”

There were at least five things he wanted to say, but John found himself completely incapable of pushing any air through his vocal chords.

“Oh, John, your next question— morphine or cocaine this time?— the answer is both. Apologies for the breach of etiquette— I would have offered you some, but I wasn’t expecting company, so there’s not enough to go round. Probably a good thing, as I am on a rather regimented dosage, I don't think you would have wanted any, and I wouldn’t have borne seeing it going to waste. All for the best.”

“For the…. “

“Ah, you've regained the ability to speak. Well. Have at it then.” Sherlock shifted up awkwardly, aiming for something a bit less horizontal, and spread both arms wide. His right one crashed into the back of the sofa, and he turned and glared at it for a moment for its betrayal just before he slid down again, settling, arms still raised high, and began to address the ceiling. “It’s exactly what it looks like. Can’t even claim it’s for a case this time. Well, I _could_ have, but... not _now_.” He smiled. 

“For the best? You… when did you take them?”

“Relax, John. I’m on my way down. Descending, as it were.”

“So now I'm completely incompetent? I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake...and I know how a fucking speedball works! As if this isn’t the most fucking dangerous time...when... and I asked you _when_ you put those…” John caught himself. This was far too important. Anger had no place if he wanted accuracy. He decided he’d treat him like a four-year-old. “What did you take and when, Sherlock?” 

“List.” He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. 

John walked in the direction of Sherlock’s waved hand. “Just this then?” He picked up the list, looked it over, and shook his head in disbelief. “Just.” He placed it back on the table and added, “or did you improvise?”

“Might have. A bit.”

John looked pale and scanned the room for a seat. He chose Sherlock’s chair and watched him from across the room. “I’ll just sit here then and hope you don’t die. Don’t mind me. So. Happen to have any naloxone handy for your planned binge? Where’s your little drug buddy? Billy, was it?”

“Billy’s,” Sherlock looked around as if expecting him to be in the kitchen, “somewhere else. Don’t know where. Don’t need a minder.”

“And there you are wrong. You certainly do. So. I now have the ‘what’ answered. Time for the ‘when’. How long ago did you start, so I’ll know if I need to call on someone to bring me something to administer, should your heart, you know...stop. Mycroft probably has countermeasures on hand.”

“I doubt it ever since he turned me over to you for safe-keeping.”

John twisted his lower lip and straightened his posture. “How long ago, Sherlock, because I need to know if I can leave you while I go get some. You are not going to die on my watch.”

“I’m not on your watch, John. And I’m not going to die.”

John waited for a ‘probably’.

“I started at noon. Thought I’d time things more easily that way. So, as you can see, I was being careful. And I’m at the end of this ride, and you are ruining what’s left of it.”

“Good. Happy to kill your buzz.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“What? Am I not up to date on the latest terminology for self-poisoning? Don’t much care. My point is made.”

“I’ve already told you, I’m done. I don't have any more. I only buy what I need. It’s a… precautionary measure.”

“If you were truly taking precautionary measures you wouldn’t have gotten anything at all.” John turned sharply, clipped the side table Sherlock had moved alongside the sofa, and kicked it hard as retaliation for having been in his way. That’s when he heard the ping. Greg.

“Fuck. I need to be back there. I’ll deal with all this after Greg’s out of surgery.”

“I thought he was already out of—”

“Yeah, well, if you were anything remotely close to functioning, I wouldn't have to tell you the text says he is going back in with a clot. You’d be telling me.” 

“Yes, you should go.”

“Quit being so fucking amiable.”

“No. Don’t. Stay here, John, please, I need you to take care of me!” He smirked. “Better?”

“This isn’t funny. This...is so goddamn far from funny, Sherlock.”

Sherlock managed to look serious for the briefest of moments. “Go.”

John glanced anxiously at his mobile, as if he might have missed a crucial update during the argument, and gave Sherlock one last piercing glare.

“Well, it's not as if whatever I say now matters anyway. ‘Stay. Don’t leave me. I need you. My life is a disaster without you beside me’ It’d just anger you even more, wouldn’t it, saying it now?”

“You cock. You needed me before you got to this, but you thought I wouldn't have—”

“You didn't expect me to come to you anyway. You were the one who thought I'd just run off to some bolthole somewhere.”

“Look. I have been dealing with my own issues, Sherlock. _Real_ issues. Not this imaginary crap. Greg doesn't blame you. And it never even occurred to him that you would blame yourself. He told me he owes you his life for knowing what treatments he would need. But you go off and use this as a bullshit excuse to go get high. This is about Greg, not you. You are not the center of attention for once and you bloody-well always have to be! Your ego won't allow for this to be someone else's turn. And, because I thought that might have happened when you just fucking disappeared... and went searching for you... the moment you _did_ actually run into something you somehow couldn't handle, you.... That’s what you are implying, isn't it? That it’s my fault for thinking you wouldn't come to me, so you decided, what-- that maybe I was right? That you shouldn't? That you shouldn’t trust me.”

Sherlock looked tired and his eyes moved slowly as he looked up at John. "I shouldn't. We both know I shouldn't. At least, I’m not supposed to."

"Fuck, Sherlock. You shouldn't. I should have walked out of your life at the goddamn hospital. I tried to. Hell, I _did_. It was the right thing to do."

Sherlock pushed himself upright with a supreme effort. “Check my pulse, John. My breathing. Convince yourself that I am fine, that I don't require you here and that I certainly don't deserve you here. Then go.”

John sighed, knelt beside the sofa, and checked his pulse. Steady, not particularly slow. He looked no more pale than usual, and his skin tone was pink. No need to check lung function then, but he would anyway. Before he left. “I don't have a stethoscope, so be quiet.” He opened Sherlock’s shirt and pressed his head to his chest.

Neither of them deserved any of this. Or maybe they both did. He couldn’t be sure. He was sure Greg didn't though. Satisfied, he texted Greg that he was on his way.

At the hospital, the nurse informed him Greg had been taken to surgery moments ago and would be moved to another room upon his return.

“For a higher level of care?”

“The head nurse agreed that Inspector Lestrade might be better served with a bed located on the opposite side of the room... so he can view the entryway more easily. The beds are a mirror image on the other side of the hallway.”

Good. Greg was taking charge of his situation. Doing what he could to improve at least some things. “I meant to suggest it, but I’d forgotten. I’m glad he mentioned it to the nursing staff.”

The nurse blinked in confusion. “I thought you had made the request? It was signed John H. Watson, MD.” she held the clipboard out to John.

“Oh.” No. No, it definitely hadn’t been him, though the handwriting on the note tucked into the chart was indistinguishable from his own. “I must have done it earlier after all. Thank you for the accommodation.”

“Certainly, Doctor. If there’s anything else we can do to make things easier, just let us know.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Look, John, you don’t have to keep checking in on me. I’ll be fine. They’re gonna give me blood thinner for a few days...I wrote it down.” Greg leaned forward and grabbed a small notepad, squinting at his own barely-legible scrawl. “Throm...biotics? Heparin. Warfarin. Good excuse not to shave.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet with them before you went in. Did they say why they chose surgery? That’s another risk for complications, and—”

“Yeah, well. Smoker. Family history of clotting. I didn't remember it until yesterday, but my dad had the same thing... only he didn't have surgery, it just happened out of the blue. They were originally going to check with sound waves over a few days to see if there was movement or growth to it, a D-something test—”

“D dimer.”

“Yeah, sounds right. But when I remembered Dad, they said to do the operation and do it now.”

John tried his best not to dwell on the fact that he wasn't there for an important decision. He agreed with the protocol, but he mentally berated himself for leaving Greg to handle this new development without his support. 

“So. Let’s talk about something more interesting. Did you tell him he was being stupid, thinking he was responsible, or did you tell him if he didn’t at least pop his big head in here Lestrade just might get all petty and solve those shiny new cases all by himself?” Stuck in a hospital bed, Greg’s tone still managed to project a swagger.

John answered quickly, before he could change his mind, his face carefully neutral. “Haven’t seen him yet. Was headed over there when I got your text and turned the cab round.” Sherlock shouldn’t have taken on blame, but still had done. While John didn’t think Greg would feel in any way responsible for Sherlock’s reaction, it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.

“I should text him myself. This sideways communication always messes things up in the long run, and you two have enough problems discussing your own issues, let alone mine.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” 

“Look, I’m just saying maybe it’s for the best you didn't get a chance to talk to him yet. The healthy thing is for me to do it myself if it bothers me he hasn't stopped by, but to be honest, it kinda doesn’t. He...doesn’t think like regular people. I mean, he can get it in his head that he can actually predict the future— put together enough sections of data to find predictable patterns. I heard him talk about it once before. Freaky, to be honest— sounded like something that would come out of someone on shrooms— but the downside to his psychic routine is everything that goes wrong is his fault for not foreseeing and stopping it. It won't be long before he decides he should have known I’d have ended up in this situation months before it happened. The way a genius’s mind works is sometimes a lot more like my five-year-old nephew’s magical thinking than anyone would ever care to admit. Only, my nephew can sometimes be convinced he was actually wrong.”

The last thing John wanted to think about right now was Sherlock, but if it was helping Greg pass the time he’d struggle through. “Well, he _can_ be a lot like the cat who falls off the telly and acts like he meant to do that. I wouldn't even be surprised if he started to find a way to convince himself he wanted something like this to happen.” John froze. Stupid. So very, very stupid. He couldn’t have possibly scripted a worse thing to say, and yet, Greg nodded.

“Yeah, not out of any ill feelings toward me, mind you. Just...it’s that warped logic when someone used to knowing what happens next is confronted with the fact that he isn’t actually God. I know he’ll be back in touch once that all passes, and his humanity is restored. He used to avoid me when he got a case all wrong, too.”

Every once and a while, John was reminded that Greg had known Sherlock far longer and understood him in ways John found beyond his capability. It bothered him. Almost jealousy, but not quite. Envy. Of someone who seemed to understand all sorts of people in ways John never quite could. This was what emotional health was. He was witnessing it from a man who had been beaten, raped, left to die, and who now was handling everything better than the men who had rescued him. What came out of his own mouth next wasn't exactly what John had expected either. “You can be honest with me, Greg.” _Even if I’m not being honest with you. Can you read that on me somehow?_ “You don't have to be strong. You have earned the right to be anything you feel like being.”

“I feel strong right now. I won’t put on a show. It's real. I feel a bit, detached, from what happened, and maybe that will come back and haunt me later, but for now… I’m okay.”

John nodded.

“He won’t get the chance to visit me anyway. An overnight for observation and then I’m headed home. The physical therapist thinks I’m healthy enough across the board to do rehab as an outpatient. I managed to get into and out of the wheelchair without putting weight on my bad leg. Apparently, this old man is a bit more fit than they expected. I think I might just stop by the Yard, too. Show people I’m doing well. Maybe even scare them into getting a bit more work done, knowing I’ll be back sooner than they think, right?” He grinned.

“Keep them on their toes, sure, but don’t push yourself. Plunging headlong into work can hardly be called healthy behaviour.”

“To be honest, John, when the whole thing with Sherlock and the ambassador’s kids went down it earned me a few enemies up the chain of command. I’d rather not be thought of as weak. I intend to be back as soon as I can manage it. Plus, I’ll feel more confident sitting behind my desk waiting for the bones to heal than lounging away at home on my recliner.”

“We’ll see how you feel when you’re moving about under your own power for a few hours at a time. Wheeling into work is well and good, but your biggest issue is probably going to be being able to stand up long enough to pee.”

“Point taken. I’ll see how I feel.”

“I’ll be here as late as I can manage —”

“John, you don’t—”

“— And I’ll stop by during the day til they clear you.” John was determined to stay well into the night in case there were any new issues. He sent off a text to Molly to check if she could do an overnight.

The reply came quickly. It was no problem at all. She just needed to go feed Toby first. John offered to pick up her keys and do it for her on his way back to hospital; he’d want to see Rosie anyway. Molly thanked him. 

He’d wait a bit first to check with the staff—discuss exactly what they had seen. As John sat in the chair opposite the bed to watch and wait, his mind snapped back to having done the same for Sherlock nearly an hour ago. Watching. Waiting. Powerless. He forced his body to remain still. Fidgeting would only make Greg anxious. Greg told John that with him around to meet with the doctors, he’d take the opportunity to try and nap. He closed his eyes. John cracked a smile. Figures Greg would notice his discomfort and find a way to put John at ease, even from his hospital bed. Greg didn’t deserve this. Not that anyone did, he added as an afterthought.

John was confident Sherlock had been stable when he had left, but it wore at him all the same. He needed to get back there. After the surgeon stopped in to update John on how well the procedure went, and advised him Greg’s lungs were perfectly clear, he left Greg a note about Toby. He’d be back after cat duty. Then John hurried down the hall at the fastest walk he could manage without having to call it a sprint.

What if he had missed something? What if Sherlock had lied and taken more after he had left? Well. Nothing he could do if Sherlock were that determined. He prepared himself for whatever he might find. 

What he found was Sherlock in his blue silk dressing gown, standing in the kitchen tinkering with lab equipment. As if nothing had happened. John wasn't sure if he was more relieved or angry. “You knew Greg would want to face the door and couldn’t without lying on his injured side,” he accused.

“Understandable reaction in a situation such as his.” Sherlock picked up a pipette and slowly drew some solution into it with his lips. John stared.

“A mouth pipette? Really?”

Sherlock placed his finger over the top. “All the others have pre-mixed formulas stored in them. And this is merely saline.”

“You knew, and you forged my name on the note.”

“Problem? I wasn’t expecting I would have the opportunity to discuss it with you, so I provided the solution.”

“You were at the hospital. You saw him.”

“Of course I saw him. I just had no intention of his seeing me. Hospital rooms are remarkably easy to get into. Bring some flowers or, even better, a bunch of pink ‘Congratulations!’ balloons to obscure your face, and you can stroll past the nurses station and pop into any patient’s room. Hospital security is notoriously lax. Even for an injured NSY officer.”

“Do you always do that? Check on people and still somehow spare them your presence?”

“You’re really asking if I checked on you. When I was dead.”

“Yeah. Yeah I am.” John sat down as Sherlock continued to dispense the solution into a series of test tubes.

“Yes. Of course. And when you wouldn't talk to me, I still… checked… a bit. Not me, mind you. Other people did it for me.”

“Spies?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn't have.”

“No. No, it’s… good. Good to know you cared even when I was...taking my time to put things in perspective.”

“I wasn't about to go to your clinic myself, disguised as a patient.” 

John laughed. “I thought you did. I...accosted some poor old man I thought was you in disguise. Yanked at his hair. Thought it was a wig.”

“Yes. I had to pay him extra; he told me he didn't sign up to be attacked. But he did give me a thorough report on your state of mind at work.”

“You—”

Sherlock continued to avoid looking directly at John as he spoke. “Yes. For the record, I didn't think you’d miss me quite as much as you did. Molly was the one who told me I was being an idiot. That I mattered to everyone far more than I anticipated. She was quite angry about it. I thought everyone would just get on with their lives without me.” He held a tube up to the light and shook it slightly. “I thought it was kind. She thought it was cruel. I thought I could save everyone from a threat and ensure it was removed permanently. She thought I defacto killed myself in front of a man who had seen far too much of death and who would blame himself for missing something that would have saved me. I...didn’t realise _how_ I died would be such as issue. Though to be honest, I had very little choice. Moriarty held the cards there. Or Eurus. Or both of them. Mycroft gave them five minutes. Certainly enough to develop a method of keeping in touch every time Eurus scoured Twitter for clues as to the state of the State. Something tells me I was a popular topic of conversation.”

“And so I get to watch you kill yourself now, then.”

“I don’t want to die, John.”

“I didn’t say you did. I think there are a hell of a lot of people who kill themselves who don’t actually want to die.”

“You were right before. I just want to forget. I’ve...always done that. Forgotten.”

John wasn't sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Then, in a near-whisper, said, “Please don’t make me watch you die again.”

“You don’t have to.”

“That sounds a lot like I don’t have to watch. Not that you won't do it.”

“Does it?”

“If we are going to discuss this, don't you think we should sit down and talk, instead of having you dropping chemicals into test tubes and avoiding looking at me the whole time?”

Sherlock placed the tubes back in a rack and crossed to his chair, “Fine. I believed that you would give up on watching me self-destruct and would leave. I thought it would have happened long ago, certainly by the time I went after Culverton Smith.”

“You were banking on tough love? Already tried that with someone else. Made things worse, not better."

"Not tough love. Self preservation."

"Well. We’re both missing that instinct, aren't we?"

Sherlock nodded silently.

John looked off into the distance. "Harry thought I'd abandoned her, thought she wasn't worth the hassle. Thank God Clara was still around. She saved her. They didn't last, but, she saved her." He turned back to Sherlock. "I didn't leave to punish you. I left to save you from the person _I_ was becoming. Furious at my wife for dying--"

"--And me for living."

"No. Just. Furious at her for dying and leaving me to raise a child I... I never even wanted to have... not that I don't love her! I just, never planned on that, and… and to do it alone. And how terrible is that? I should have wanted my own daughter."

"I don't even think that's unusual. For new parents."

"Maybe not. You’d probably know better than I would anyway. You always know how people will react. Like you knew what I would do. When you were in hospital.”

"I knew because, when it comes down to it, you will do the right thing. That's why I put a recording device in the cane."

"Two weeks _before_ my having beaten you to a pulp. And you can actually say I do the right thing? You knew I would do that. You knew exactly what type of person I was. Underneath it all."

 

“No. I was wrong about the why, but whatever the rationale, I figured I stood to lose you and gain a souvenir you deemed far more helpful to me than your presence would be. But, let’s leave this discussion for another time, John. You need to take care of Toby. And thank you. For checking on me.”

“Dazzle me, Sherlock Holmes. How did you know about Toby?”

“Simple, really. You are here.” Sherlock went back to the kitchen table. “Greg just had another surgery today. You’d want to stay with him, probably through the night, which requires Molly to—“

“You think I’d only be here if I was going out anyway.”

Sherlock stopped, looked at John, and blinked, drawing into himself.

“Sherlock?”

“Well. Not now, no. Not...now.”

“Good. So. I will help you through this. Are you… there’s still enough in your system to keep from—”

“There is. I won’t need more on a physical level. Not quite yet.”

“If it had metabolised, do you think you’d go get some?”

“Yes. I don’t know what else I’d do.”

“We’ll find something else. You said you wouldn’t make another vow…”

“John. I can’t promise I won't do this.”

“Okay. So don’t promise. I’ll still be back tomorrow. Right now, I have to take care of a very hungry cat.”


	8. Chapter 8

John had woken up with a crick in his neck, but was satisfied he had stayed and nothing terrible had happened. Later that morning, Greg had been released rather unceremoniously, and John had promised he’d continue to check on him at home.

John was still at the hospital reviewing Greg’s file when he was suddenly, painfully aware of not having eaten dinner the night before. And, quite possibly, lunch. Things were a bit hazy. A quick glance at his mobile to see what time it was, and he noticed an email alert he had somehow missed. The results from the blood work were in. John took a deep breath and logged onto the secure server. No sexually transmitted infections. He felt a wave of relief. Food would wait. He’d stop by and give Greg the good news in person… see how he was managing getting round his flat with a wheelchair and a set of crutches to navigate the too narrow alcove between the rooms. It hadn't been exactly compliant with accessibility code. No. No, food couldn't wait. He needed to eat before he fainted on the way. He passed by a vending machine, grabbed something in a bag, and headed to Greg’s.

Greg was happy to hear it, of course he was, but something was still off. When John pushed, Greg’s voice showed a noticeable strain. 

“It’s nothing. I just, went into work today. Right after they released me. Not to do anything, really. I'm still on leave. Just to say hello and to thank people for their cards and support and… they weren't expecting me.”

“Expecting?”

“Yeah. They hadn’t prepared what to say. When something like this happens, there’s a sort of, group meeting or something. About how they are gonna treat you when you get back. Not a formal thing of course. It's not like they have a morning briefing about Greg coming to visit and what are we all gonna say to him. It’s just, I think they all need enough time to discuss you at the water cooler, right?”

John stared with wide eyes and nodded.

He shifted a bit in his recliner. “Well. I guess it was a bit early, because I got some blank stares… and a few were relentlessly cheerful, concerned they’d break my magic spell if they showed negativity in any form and then we’d both crash down to Earth. Sally was eager to let me know how chaotic it has been with me gone; I can only hope that's an exaggeration to make me feel important, because I am still out for another two weeks but after that she made it sound like I’d be coming back to a right mess, according to her. Then there were the ones who saw me in the hall and pretended they had somewhere else to be.”

John sighed. “I’m sorry. People can be… well… just, I’m sorry.”

“And someone tried to set herself up as a confidante.”

John's jaw tightened. 

“Not… not like you, John, you’re not.... One of the women— you wouldn't know her, she works in Evidence and her name is Lara— she came over and gave me a bit too much of a ‘If you ever need anything... or just want to talk’, kinda moment. I could see it in her eyes, John. That she’d been there. And I… I, had no idea how to handle that. She had never let me see that part of her before, but now I was this sort of... I don’t know what I was to her. Because it wasn’t exactly solidarity she was offering. It was a sort of a… an advanced level of pity. No, it was more like superiority, or even a kind of power? I don’t have the words for it, but I could tell she thought I would naturally want to talk to her... and I didn’t. I don’t. I…. I....” Greg closed his eyes for a moment, gathered his thoughts and continued. “I said I had to leave for a follow up appointment and I wheeled out of there and hit the edge of the doorframe on the way. I tried to laugh it off, but I was losing it fast. I could feel things slipping away. I had to get out.”

“You don't have to say anything to anyone. Maybe she really wanted to help. Maybe she just wanted to feel important. Either way, you have a counsellor, and you also have me. I’m not a subordinate or a superior.”

“What’s going to happen the next time we get a case like this? Someone's gonna glance over at me, and then at some random person— just to make me think they weren't actually doing that. Am I going to lose it then, too? I worked too hard to get to where I am to see people being… no, that isn’t it either. That’s part of it, but that isn’t it.” 

Greg closed his eyes, then opened them slowly. “Yeah, maybe this medication does slow me down bit. I don't always have the words.” He brushed some hair out of his face. “Right now, my knee hurts a hell of a lot more than my.…” He jerked his head sharply toward his lap. “The stitches itch a bit, and I need to do some special care routines, so it’s not like I can just forget about it. I need laxatives and I need to clean the area and all that sort of stuff until it heals up. But… it shouldn't feel, shouldn’t _be_ , any different from other ways I could have been, that I _was_ , beaten.” 

He tried to straighten himself up without relying on his arms for leverage, and did a decent job of it. “We have these pamphlets at the Yard that we give to victims. One for children, one for women, one for straight men and one for gay men. I took both the ones for men.”

John tried his best to look nonchalant. Showing his surprise wouldn’t be helpful, and this was not the time to discuss sexual orientation in general. He simply filed this away as a sign Greg might be someone safe to discuss his own issues with— at some point in the future.

“I’m not really questioning myself. I just wanted to see how the information would be different.”

John nodded.

“I would say I was straight. For all that it matters. I guess the fact that I can be so casual about it probably confirms I’m coming from a position of privilege about my sexuality. Anyway, I'm not going to say the thought had never crossed my mind, ever, but it had always been just in passing. So, I wondered if the advice would be all that different if I was gay, or bisexual. The straight one went on for a while about how a sexual assault doesn't make anyone gay. Well, of course not! I guess some people need to be told that. It actually kinda upset me, that their grip on their own sexuality would be so tenuous. It was simplistic, and it, yeah I guess it actually made me angry to think anyone would need to be told it isn't possible for something like this, for someone else’s _crime_ , to change something in you. It wasn't until I read the gay pamphlet, where it talked more about the perpetrator saying things like you deserved it, that it clicked. That some men might see it as punishment... for being the way they are.” 

Greg cleared his throat. “He… didn't say anything to me, by the way. Except that time he said maybe he’d share. It sounded like a bluff. Like he said it because he thought it would upset me. Because, it was always just him and me.”

“More than one time then.”

“Yeah. I mean, he wouldn’t actually… he wouldn’t actually rape me every time. He did it twice. Sometimes he’d just come in and threaten to, act like he was going to start again, and then leave. But we were always alone. And I guess I’ll always feel like I should have been able to stop him, but there isn't any part of me saying it was because I wanted it or deserved it. Hard to relate to. It made me think about cancelling the therapy. I don't really need it. Other people do. I didn't react sexually. All I could think of was how much it hurt. Everywhere. A wash of pain. So. I just thought, more pain. This is, just a different type of pain.” He tried to run his fingers through his hair, but some strands got stuck in the soft cast, so he stopped and sighed.

John wanted to tell him that his not going to therapy had absolutely no effect on anyone else. It wasn’t as if he was taking up someone else’s space. And even if he was… he deserved help, just as much as anyone else. But at the same time, Greg was finally talking. He didn’t want to interrupt.

“I know this guy is just a crazy dealer with a thing against cops. I know it. I know it says nothing about me. My body didn’t betray me, like the people they wrote the pamphlet for. I didn't suddenly question anything afterwards. It wasn’t a sexual act. It was a violent act. And meant to humiliate me. But… the thing with Lara showed me that others wouldn’t see it that way. If he had just beat me to a pulp… well, that’s really all this was. But I do worry that maybe I’m clinging to this being no different than any other injury. It shouldn’t be. I don’t want it to be. But maybe it actually is.” Greg stopped, looked at John, waited.

“We spend a lot of time telling ourselves rape isn't really about sex. But that doesn't mean it doesn't affect you sexually.”

“If I let this get to me any more than it would if it had been a street fight, or getting shot, or any other bit of physical violence, then I... I can’t let him mess with my head, John. If I do, he wins. And when she was...the way she looked at me. I’m …”

John got off of the sofa and stood beside Greg’s chair, placing his hand on the upholstery. “Would it help if I… gave you a hug, or held you... or, do you need space?”

“I don't know. I… don't know what I want. Or what to do.”

John moved slowly, finding a small section of the chair to edge into. Greg paused a moment, assessing, before dropping his head into the crook of John’s shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice was raspy and broken. Greg had to have been crying, but he didn't lift his head. He paused every few words for a breath. “I know... it isn’t really sexual. But I think... maybe I’m afraid... of the ways... that it is.”

“It’s okay. To be afraid. And you are right about all of it. You’ll make it through.” John’s mobile rang. “Fuck. Sorry. That’s Molly’s ringtone and she’s with Rosie. I have to take it.”

“Please. Go ahead. There’s really nothing more I can say. I’m, fine. I mean, I’m far from great, but I’m coping. And I will keep the appointment. Thank you. For listening.”

“You’re welcome.” John pushed the button quickly. “Yes? Oh. Well, I thought I...there aren't any behind the peas? No, no that’s what she likes best. I’ll go get some and bring them to you. Should be home in half an hour, then. No, no, it’s my fault for not realising we were out. Yeah. Quick as I can.” He turned to Greg. “I’m out of grapes.”

“Let me guess. Without them she’s a screaming mess?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well.” Greg let a smile come through. “You know what you gotta do.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Remember when you implied I was visiting only because I was going out anyway? Well, since I happen to be out, I thought maybe I’d take your unintended and deeply cynical advice and stop by.**

**I would prefer you did not stop by until later tonight.**

**Wrong answer. I’m coming over right now.**

**Seeing as I’m not home at the moment.**

**Like hell you’re not. I can see you.**

**Well played, John. You’re getting smarter.**

John typed out ‘I’ve grown up with liars’, then deleted it. **I thought you were going to be fine today.**

**I am fine. Just cocaine. Nothing dangerous.**

_So you change your little custom blend and now you expect it all to be perfectly acceptable?_ No, Sherlock hadn’t expected that. He had thought there would be enough time to get away with it. Now that he was caught, there was nothing to do but downplay. Another message came in.

**Not even truly what one could call addictive.**

More games with semantics. But John had to keep calm and find some other way to deal with his growing anger. It wouldn't help matters, and he really needed it to have done. He needed to be that kind of person— the kind that helps others. John was sure he'd find his center in just a little bit if—

**Heroin has an intensely physical withdrawal. You could say the cocaine is providing the rather beneficial service of keeping me away from the heroin.**

Sherlock certainly was high. He never talked this much, unless it was about a case. The texts continued to pile up at a rapid pace.

**I can stop the cocaine once Lestrade’s back and I'm working again.**  
**The distraction will override any craving.**  
**Psychological addictions are far more easily overcome.**

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _He wants me to respond. To fill in the empty spaces. He’s goading me_. Finally, John typed **I’m just** and stopped, not backspacing this time. Just what? **You deceived me.** John hit send.

**I did not. I said I didn't feel a physical pull yet. I said I made no promises. I said I wouldn’t be in danger. I thought that was rather the point.**

**I don’t just want you to not die, Sherlock. I want you to** Live? Be healthy? Be done with all of this? **Nevermind. I want you to not die. Good enough. All I can expect. I’ll come over later tonight.**

John headed to the nearest pub. 

***

_It’s a fucking disease. Quit treating it like a moral failure._

John went up to the bar and ordered a double-o-seven.

Sherlock couldn’t be expected to make it through this… thing… with his sister without being tempted to go back to a more tried-and-true method of coping, right? And there were all too many lowlifes out there- all just waiting to push someone trying to avoid a relapse over the edge. 

John eyed everyone at the bar with renewed suspicion. This was no posh, elite drug-ridden nightclub where impeccably presented dealers would slide the latest thing under the table. Nor was it some doss house dive. It was just a neighborhood pub. A pint and Scotch eggs. He was the sore thumb here with his loner’s drink. He finished it off and got another. Maybe he could catch a pub quiz, be more social while he waited for Sherlock to be… presentable. John mentally complimented himself for not going over there right now to throttle him, and the thought backfired. _Yeah. Good on you, Watson. You managed to not be a violent prick. You deserve a bloody medal._

Three drinks in, the phone rang. It was Molly’s ringtone. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck the grapes. Fuck._ He didn’t answer. Maybe… maybe Molly would think there had been some sort of emergency and he couldn't have gotten the grapes just yet. He couldn’t tell her he had just been wrapped up in other things and had forgotten. Forgotten about Rosie. What kind of parent forgets about his own child crying at home with sore gums? Because he had forgotten to buy more grapes in the first place. He’d forgotten about her _twice_.

John waited just long enough for the voicemail to kick in, then dialed immediately to listen to the recording, his mind swimming in ‘what ifs’. Maybe the call had nothing to do with the grapes. But of course that didn’t matter. He'd still forgotten. He’d still gotten distracted by Sherlock, who had made him— No. Not Sherlock’s fault. It was the stupid drugs, right? That was beyond his conscious choice.

Molly’s voice came through loudly in his ear. He angled the mobile away and listened, his head in his hands. Molly had just gotten a phone call from her friend, the mechanic. Who was calling about parts. And they got to chatting a bit. As they sometimes did. Molly sounded hesitant, almost bashful. Oh. Well then... good for Molly, eh? Her voice was a bit quieter now, and he brought the phone close to his ear again. 

She actually had some frozen grapes. Molly’s _friend_. Apparently, her daughter likes grapes in her lunchbox and hates when they get warm so she freezes them to keep them cold all day and isn’t it great they were already perfect.

John wondered if Molly was lying. Molly could lie with the best of them. She’d lied to him the whole time Sherlock was dead. Apparently everyone was capable of lying except for him. No, _he’d_ let the cat out of the bag. All a bunch of fucking liars.

Molly went on to say how all was well and good now, there was no need to bring any grapes over, and he could stay with Greg some more. 

John winced. Of course she would think he would go back to spending time with Greg. She didn't know about Sherlock. No one did. And Greg had truly needed him. Truly needs him still. As does Sherlock.

He checked the time. Too damn early still. One more drink and that should do it. He’d walk back to chew up some time. Take the long way home. Well, to Sherlock’s place anyway. Not home. _Well, it’s one for forgetting about my baby, and one for the road,_ John chuckled. Oh yeah, his grandad had sure liked Sinatra. Being like Grandad wasn’t a particularly good thing, however. He skipped the extra drink, closed his tab, and headed into the night.

This was good. He was drunk, yeah, but he could still function well enough, and by the time he was relatively clear-headed, Sherlock would be too. _Excellent plan, Watson. See. You can still think._ He wondered if Sherlock could. Up to his eyeballs in cocaine, morphine, could he still think? A mind like Sherlock’s… if stimulants could slow down someone with atypical neurological functioning, maybe cocaine would actually….nah. Nah, Sherlock wasn’t really after that. He was after feeling good and forgetting. Just like everyone else. 

John had his drinking under control. Most of the time. Sherlock would never drink to forget. It wasn't all that different in some ways, alcohol and hard drugs, but in others... It was a hell of a lot more dangerous as far as immediate damage. Alcohol took time to wear your body down. Injections….one wrong move and it was all over. And John knew this path. Knew when to get off of it. Like he’d done tonight. Sure, he was still a bit more… something… than usual. Maybe he was more real. More straightforward. Maybe he wouldn't lie to himself near as much when he was a bit drunk. Now there was the kind of lying he was good at! _Ah yes, you are very good at that kind of lie, Watson. Look at yourself. You tell yourself you don't want all these things you obviously do. Obviously. Obviously. Sherlock can see that even if he’s high._

As John cut through Regents Park, he realised he had been walking far faster than usual, and his normal pace could hardly be called slow. He headed to a more remote corner of the park, found a bench, and sat. It was quiet and peaceful at night. He wasn’t able to relax though, even with the depressant side of the alcohol kicking in. Still alert. Soldier's reflexes die hard. But that was a good thing. A bit of lingering anxiety kept him on his toes. Sometimes, it challenged him. 

_Dangerous, showing up like this. But why the fuck not. Why the fuck not put everything on the fucking table. Lay those cards right down. Because Sherlock is high, that’s why not. Because Sherlock doesn't need one more fucking thing to fucking deal with when he can’t handle all this shit right now as is. He needs less complication, not fucking more._

John’s attention was drawn by a faint rustling. He pinpointed it to some bushes to his left. Two men walked out, going separate directions. Well. Could only be two things, and the man headed his way on the path, reassuring himself by giving his wallet a quick pat, didn’t seem dressed the part for it to have been sex. No, who was he kidding. No one meeting up for a quick one in the bushes had to look remotely attractive. It wasn’t that kind of thing, was it? He glanced at the other man. Both seemed to be moving on as quickly as possible, but the man walking away from John pulled out his mobile, never breaking his stride. Drugs then. Had to be letting whoever he intended to share them with know the mission was accomplished.

Goddamn dealers everywhere. None of his business. Still. If it weren't for goddamn dealers, he would be with Sherlock now, instead of waiting for him to come down. He’d be right there, maybe even touching him. Maybe. If he were there right now he just might have been, even if it wasn't the smart thing. Even if it was the more complicated choice, that didn't automatically make it a bad choice. But no. No, he was sitting in a park, the bugs just starting to come out, the evening getting a bit chilly, waiting. Because Sherlock had already called someone just like this guy. 

He looked over at the man, just a quick glance, trying to take in all that he could, maybe make a deduction or two of his own. He wondered how much he had just pocketed. Did he ever feel bad about it? Being part of someone's wrecked life? Probably not. John could go over and tell him. Tell him that thanks to people like you, I’m not home kissing my… whatever the hell Sherlock could be… right now. Thanks to you. John looked at him more closely now, and imagined how it would feel to stop him and just say that. It wouldn't make a difference. Guy like that ruined people’s lives every day and knew it. Bet he told himself it was their choice, always their choice, to call him or not call him, right? Not like he gave away samples like some coupon for free hand cream at Boots— try it out, get hooked and come back for more at full price. No need to recruit new clients when you could just hang around a park and wait for people to come to you or phone you.

John looked at the man some more. He was in his mid-twenties, scrawny, looked like he might have done more than he sold.

The man looked at John and smiled broadly. Cocky fucking bastard.

“Waiting for someone?”

John glanced up again and then quickly back down. “Maybe,” he muttered to his shoes. _Maybe waiting for someone to come fucking down, arsehole._

“Well, maybe you’re waiting for me. Want to make the time fly by? Cause I might just have something that’s real good for that.”

John was on him in seconds. He wasn’t even aware of the first blow… the one that had knocked the dealer to the ground. John might have said something about leaving people the fuck alone. And might have heard something stuttered back through a bloodied mouth about how you c-could’ve just said you wasn't interested and I woulda moved on, let you be. John didn't think he’d said the bit about people just trying to sit in a park without someone offering shit to them they didn't fucking ask for aloud. How someone might not fucking _want_ or even _think_ about that until he fucking offered it up. John landed a solid kick to his ribs and it should have felt glorious, it really should have, and maybe at first it did, but by now he didn't feel much of anything at all. Eventually, John stopped. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to realise the man wasn't moving anymore. Not that he ever really was; he hadn’t so much as taken a swing at John before he was on the ground. 

_He is ok, he is ok, no real harm, no. Get out of here and phone for help._ John looked around, saw no one concealed within the darkness, and knelt down to do a quick check of his vitals as he picked up his mobile. _I have no idea what happened, officer. I was out for a stroll and saw him lying on the ground. I’ve administered first aid. I’m a doctor. I-_ No. He’d have to stick around if he reported it, and might be identified by the man if he came to. He’d go to a phone booth. Explain his mobile had no battery. Call from there. The one Mycroft had once used to call him ages ago was on the way. He checked at his mobile reflexively. There was a text from Sherlock on it.

**I assume you thought better of stopping by later. I just wanted you to know I’m fine. And I understand.**

John stared at the glowing screen, then at the man on the grass. Then he left.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a long time to even think about writing something like this. (And I did write "There's a Way" first. ) I'm as committed to Sherlock and John getting their happily-ever-after as the next Johnlocker, but having lived through domestic abuse, I know this story (as it has been written so far by TPTB) doesn't have a happy ending. Once someone goes there, you never fully trust them with your heart and your body in quite the same way. Nor should you. It might never happen again (possibly) but you still hold back because you need to always be on guard for it. So my advice to real people in the real world is firmly and fiercely that love does not conquer all and please do not stay together. This type of abuse is deeper than the 'anger issues' addressed here. I recommend Lundy Bancroft's "Why Does He Do That" for a sobering look at just what the odds are for pulling through this. But. This is fiction. And fiction is an opportunity for wish-fulfillment. And what we want and do in fic stays in fic. So, with that in mind, I gave them the impossible.

Sherlock looked as if he either had just woken up or hadn’t slept for days when he came to the door, and though John couldn't be certain, he suspected the latter. His dressing gown was askew, his hair an unholy mess, and he could most definitely have used a shower. John was acutely aware he probably looked pretty much the same, and he had the added benefit of reeking of alcohol. 

“Had a bit more to drink than you’d anticipated, then.” Sherlock scanned John and gave a half smile before seating himself in his chair. John’s still remained in place, for the occasions he might stop by and visit. Like now. Sherlock coaxed John to sit with his eye movement.

“Yeah. Just a scooch. I found out I forgot to bring something important home to Rosie, between checking in on you and Greg. I suppose you just can't help everyone. I just have to accept that.”

“And you certainly couldn’t help the dealer in Regents Park you beat up before leaving him for the paramedics.”

“You know, I debated coming here tonight. I really, truly did. But the thought of you believing I gave up on you, on top of everything else you were feeling, sort of made it impossible not to come straight over. Thanks for making me question my judgment on this decision as well as the other one. Give me a moment before you tell me how it was done, okay? Just a moment to be pissed off.” But John found himself smiling instead. “And I did help him.”

“Not really. And if it is who I think it is, you won't be too upset about it.” 

“Cocaine doesn't dampen your perception then?”

“The cocaine is out of my system. And, no… nothing else is currently in it, before you ask. But as to dampening perception… not by much. Possibly heightens it, but, heightens it across the board, which makes it less than helpful. Too much input has a comparable effect to not enough.” Sherlock gave a quick nod. “Seems as if the alcohol is out of yours as well.”

“More or less. Or else I’d still be more pissed about how you knew what happened than curious.”

“Lots of blood on your cuffs. A decent amount on your shoes where you stood deliberating. Only a little bit of grass stain on your knees, indicating you knelt down, but got up quite quickly. _Also_ indicating it was in the park, I assumed Regents given the proximity, and not an alleyway or bar.”

“And that it was a dealer?”

“Honestly, John, between me and Lestrade, who else could it possibly be?” 

“Yeah. Well… Yeah. Mid-twenties. Thin as a rail. Uh… dark hair, cut quite short.”

“Yes. He’s not what anyone would call a nice person.”

“Nice person or not, I still shouldn’t have done… that.”

“What if I told you he was Cunningham’s right hand man?”

“He worked for Cunningham?”

“No. He didn’t. But what if I told you he had? Would you be less inclined to view him as some tragic victim worthy of a chance at redemption?”

“He didn’t deserve to be left there like that. He wasn’t threatening me. And as far as the rest, people can always change.”

Sherlock looked at John again. “Redemption. Forgiveness. Yes, people are occasionally worthy of this sort of thing, or so I’m led to believe.”

“Hah.” 

Sherlock fidgeted with his dressing gown. "I texted Greg. Just before I did the lines. I didn’t want him to feel badly about my having not seen him in hospital. Apparently, you had just left, so we talked about you instead of all the more important things we both wished to avoid discussing.”

“Thanks.”

Sherlock continued, oblivious to the insult. “Want to hazard a guess as to what he said?"

"You and John are both idiots?"

"More or less. He said, 'Fucking talk to him already, Sherlock.' And I said, 'He doesn't want to talk to me'. And he said, 'Yes, he does. Just, get through this already. I don't know where it will take you, exactly, but don't stay right here."

"Not bad."

"He _is_ the brightest of a rather dim lot."

“We have a problem, Sherlock.”

“I believe we have more than one.”

John smiled. This felt good, their banter, even if that made this all so much harder, but Sherlock’s expression remained grave. “John. If you leave, I will be dead within two months.”

“What the fuck? That is not helping, Sherlock. That sort of threat is not—”

“I don’t mean I will take my own life. I wouldn’t do that; I am merely being realistic. I know the progression. I will think I have it all under control. And for a while, I will. But then I will get careless. I won’t screen something properly. I'll choose a bad supplier because a good one happened to be unavailable, or just took too long. I’ll up it to counteract an increased resistance. I _will_ mess up. And, at the level I’m at, I am unlikely to get a second chance, once I do.”

“And somehow that isn’t suicide? While you go about... what? Resolving your loose ends, making friends with your abusers. Looks just like someone thinking of doing themselves in. Saw it lots of times. We called it ‘clearing the path to heaven’, and I think every damn vet did it at one time or another— when you know you’re gonna die and you figure you still have some time left to make things right. But you, Sherlock, you’ve started acting like Bill Fucking W opened the Big Book to Step Nine and beat you over the head with it.”

“Alcoholics Anonymous has its higher-power-related failings, but the principles are sound enough concerning moving forward during recovery. Are you saying ‘right your wrongs’ isn’t sound advice?”

“I’m saying you’re missing one very big point. You didn’t wrong these people. They wronged you. Eurus, Mycroft, your parents, Mary, me. You don’t need to make amends. We are the ones who need your absolution.” 

“And I forgive you.”

“Is there anyone you won’t forgive? I know you came back from the dead and all, but have you considered that perhaps that _doesn’t_ make you Jesus? Did you spend a chunk of that time in Tibet holed up in some monastery learning how damn small you are? Because you aren’t! You were already better than me before this forgiveness binge.” John looked down at his hand, clasping the edge of the chair, and forced himself to breathe slowly and unclench it. To soften his voice. “I thought it was indifference. I was stupid. You really, truly, care. I kept trying to do the right thing as a conscious decision, to make myself moral. But really, it was to win that battle. The wolf you feed and all that. You never had to fight any battle. You just did what needed to be done in the most efficient, most effective way possible. You are the better man, Sherlock. I make everything worse.”

John was surprised to see Sherlock take a breath as well. “No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to write yourself off as a bad person. You don't have the right to label yourself ‘Bad John’ and just leave me. You want to fix this? You want to help fix me? Then do it already. Stop running away and move closer.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Because…”

"I can't do this, Sherlock. What we have is... I need to back off from it."

"Why?"

"How... how can you ask why? You know what I did. What I’ve done. How can you _possibly_ ask why?"

"That is the consequence of avoidance, John. You were already avoiding me, before the hospital. That is the outcome when you run. You don't know what happens when you stand and face it. That is an entirely different type of bravery.” Sherlock looked at John, at the sadness in his eyes. “That type of bravery is also an adrenaline rush, you know."

"I can't be this close to you, Sherlock. I need to back off. I need to regroup, or something."

"Again. Why?"

"Because I don't see where it would.... If I started this up, I don't see where it would end. I don't see where we would draw lines, Sherlock. I don't. I’m all in or all out, and I…. And because I don't see how it would play out, I just..."

"My God, John, you're worse at relationships than I am! How is that even possible?"

"That's just it. I am! And, I'd... I'd want something that you wouldn't necessarily want out of this. So. Yeah. Space is a good thing for more than one reason."

"Wasn't it you who said a relationship would complete me?"

John gave a tiny smile. "Yeah, that was a bit obnoxious, to make that assumption. I was... I was thinking about loss. About not appreciating what you had while you still could. First time that happened was when you jumped and... then I did it again— ruined the good thing I had with Mary. Well, it could have been good, if I had worked on a few things. Still, that didn't mean you felt that same way about Irene Adler. And just because she was dead and then she wasn't, and you were given the gift of time, doesn't mean you wasted that gift. You don't need that to be complete, but... I guess I might. Projection at its finest. You were fine. I wasn't."

"And how are you now?”

"Pretty horrible. I plan to spend my time with patients or with Rosie. If I’m surrounded by people all the time, it's a ridiculous cliche, but maybe I won't feel quite so alone." 

“That never works. It doesn’t even work as a good cliche.”

“No. You are missing something here. I know what happens when you take someone back. Someone who is capable of… the things I’m capable of. You had sense enough to keep your sister behind that wall of glass. There's only so much damage she can do from there, even when you have forgiven her.”

Sherlock paused and looked at John. John was trembling. “Your mother went back to him.”

“And paid a price for it, yeah. We all did. I didn’t realise it then. Not entirely. But some of the injuries she had, looking back at them, didn’t quite make sense.”

“And so, your father is still making decisions for you.”

“Nice try. Not going to work. If I’m abusive— ‘If’! Should be saying ‘when’, but for now let’s go ahead leave it at ‘if’ so you won’t go debating me. If I'm abusive, then I need to be far away from you. I will try to act like I’m remorseful— and maybe I might even _be_ remorseful— but then I will turn around and I will do it all over again.”

“That’s not nec—“

“And you will make excuses for me and say things like, ‘That’s not necessarily true, John. You have anger issues, and I violated your trust, and you are not like this by nature. It was the circumstances that did it.’ You will give me beautifully-crafted arguments. And I will tell you that you are right, let’s just start over fresh. And I will do it all over again. Or something very much like it.”

Sherlock paused before finally speaking. “Probably.”

“Good. That’s… something, I guess. That that is out there. That we need to create space while I change my instincts is not the problem. I can manage that. The problem is, right now, you need closeness.”

“I do.”

“So how does this work, exactly?”

“I don’t know. One of us gets his way. I think it should be me, obviously.”

John halted all he had been planning to say and, instead, took a moment to consider how utterly _Sherlock_ that response was. It made him ache. “Look, what I’m thinking is— I have messaging. We can do it daily. Hell, we can do it hourly. So long as I am, physically somewhere else.”

“Artificial arrangement.”

“Yes, but… closeness as well as distance.”

“Ending when?”

“I don’t know.”

“Starting when?”

“You want me to see you through it, don’t you?”

“My track record at rehabilitation facilities is abysmal.”

“Uh, what did you—“

“Do last time? I went to rehab. I stayed long enough to get past the physical aspect… the aches, the shaking, the digestive issues— all the joys of detoxing. I was done sooner, but they required a minimum of two weeks stay. Then, I went home.”

“You checked in voluntarily.”

“Of course not. Mycroft bribed me. I’m affording you the opportunity to do the same.”

“To bribe you to get clean.”

“I get clean and then I come home to you, yes.”

“Two weeks apart is hardly going slow. You do realise AA says you shouldn't start any new relationships until a year of sobriety.”

“Good thing this isn't a new relationship, then. We've been in one for years. Or are you trying to imply that relationships are based on genital contact?”

“I meant that… God, Sherlock! I feel like we need to go back and replay this entire conversation. Didn't we skip over something to get all the way to here?”

“If you’d like a recording for review, you can always contact Mycroft— Hi, Myke!” Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and waved at the ceiling. “—Who has been monitoring my flat since my relapse in an attempt to give me just enough space to come through it on my own but still swoop in and save me, should I need rescuing. Admirable show of restraint, letting me get this far, Brother Mine.” Sherlock smiled and turned back to John. “It was somewhere around where you implied you were afraid of what we could become. ‘All in or all out’, innuendo most likely unintended. You didn’t think I’d miss that, did you?”

“Wasn’t how I expected this to go.”

“Never quite works out the way you’d expect.” 

“And the bit about my wanting something that you wouldn't necessarily want? You didn’t miss that part, did you?”

“By which you mean sex.”

John sighed. “Yes. By which I mean… sex.”

“Which you want. And you think perhaps I might not.”

“Which I have no prior experience with, am feeling unexpectedly interested in trying, and am more or less petrified of screwing up, yes.”

“Well then, that makes two of us.” Sherlock stopped for a moment and then started again. “ _No_ , actually it _doesn’t_. I’m quite certain I won’t screw it up.”

“Ah, now there’s the arrogant bastard I know and love.”

Sherlock beamed.

“I love you too, John. So. I suppose the center I went to last time was adequate. Mycroft likely has all the paperwork I’ll need at the ready, and he’ll be pleased he won’t have to forge any documentation. Two weeks, John. And then we can begin to prove you have learned alternate coping mechanisms to your satisfaction.”

“Two weeks is not enough to change something like this, Sherlock.”

“It’s not enough to keep me clean either. What it is, is a start. A start that might falter, and if so, we make adjustments. We allow for them. We treat them with all the gravity they deserve. We feel that fear. We see what brought us— whichever one of us it may be— to that point, we apologise, and we examine how to change the stimulus and therefore the response.”

“But it isn’t about the stimulus, Sherlock. It’s me. This is what I do.”

“I didn’t mean I would have caused a certain type of reaction. I meant within you. See the neurological path you took, and rewire it. And, yes, we take some time apart for that if you wish.”

“This isn’t supposed to work. You don’t do this sort of thing just to get someone back. It needs to come from you. Love doesn't fix things. It’s an even worse cliche than being around people not to feel alone.”

“Neither of us are doing this for the other. We don’t want to live like this. The man at the park… you don’t want to avoid a repeat of that because of _me_. And I don't want not to die because of… well, you're not the only reason I have to want to stay alive, let's put it that way. We are not doing this for each other. We are doing it for ourselves, at the same time.”

“You seem remarkably confident, considering you must know how rarely this works.”

“We both understand that we are learning how to conquer this. No excuses. For either of us. And we won't pass by the opportunity for meaningful change. We'll both see it happening, John. And then, when the right responses happen time and time again and we can no longer deny we have chosen new paths, then you can ditch that awful basement apartment.”

“I will need to see about breaking the lease first.”

“I do believe my cousin Vernon is looking for a sublet in that part of town.”


	11. Chapter 11

John rolled over to the sound of a text pinging. It was 6 am. He was generally an early riser, but had hoped to sleep in a bit to recover from a rather difficult week. Well, that was an understatement.

**You have an appointment with Doctor Punam Sood at 9 tomorrow morning for an Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing session. I took it upon myself to tamper with NHS’s sloth-like processing, since the sooner you begin your treatment, the sooner Sherlock will his. Good luck, Doctor Watson.**

That was more goodwill than he deserved from Mycroft. John texted Sherlock.

**Your brother has set up an appointment for me. Tomorrow at 9.**

John waited some time for the response.

**I have advised my brother if he wishes to continue any manner of relationship he is to stay out of all of this. He is to be neither a pillar of support nor some sort of motivational skeptic, existing solely for the purpose of proving him wrong. I permitted him to expedite the process, and that is all. I needed to be certain he understood this before I replied to you.**

**He wished me good luck.**

A bit more delay. **I see.**

Which meant Mycroft actually didn’t. Wish him well, that was. And John didn't blame him one bit. 

John reached for his laptop. He had heard about EMDR before, in the context of PTSD treatments, but this wasn’t about PTSD. Not really. Though Dr Sood seemed to have dealt with plenty of that as well, judging by her page. Her list of credentials was rather long. 

He had heard this particular type of therapy had a reputation for being quick and intense. Good. Maybe he could get a lot done in these two weeks after all— and end up with something like a glimmer of hope by the time Sherlock had finished his detox. Which reminded him…

**So when do you do your admit?**

**Well, 9 tomorrow morning, I suppose?**

**You’re serious? You’re going to start at exactly the same time as me?**

**I will sign my documents then and enter the facility. If we are not to be in close proximity, and I do understand your reluctance, I want us to be connected in some other meaningful way.**

**This is the most romantic therapy-session-scheduling ever, Sherlock. It borders on absurd.**

**Seemed appropriate for a romantic and a drama queen. Besides, the withdrawal symptoms will peak tomorrow or the day after, and I will be far better off somewhere where access is difficult. So— not to take away from the romantic aspect, but it is also quite practical.**   
**I am trying to avoid suboxone. It is hard enough to sleep as is, and I don't care to go through withdrawal all over again in a few months.**   
**Methadone is off the table for me.**

Even though miles away, John suppressed his visible reaction out of sheer habit. Abusing methadone was possible of course, with no ceiling effect to limit the high, but he hadn't anticipated Sherlock having already been through that. Plus, being a masterful chemist, John wouldn't put it past him to ‘modify’ any prescription he would be given. But he would be setting himself up for a considerable amount of pain, doing this without an agonist. It wasn't going to be easy. John frowned anyway, with the absolute certainty that Sherlock could somehow tell.

**I did say I didn’t have a particularly good track record,** came the reply to a comment John never actually made.

**Tell me anything I need to know. But, as far as anything else goes, that was then and this is now.**

**I can think of nothing else of which you would not be fully aware.**  
 **I know it goes against my prefered method of communication, but I would like to hear your voice tomorrow, when you update me on your session. It will provide a greater distraction. Which would be helpful. The first two days are the worst.**

John very pointedly did not ask how many times Sherlock had been through this. Sherlock did not volunteer the information.

***

“You can stop at any time if it feels too overwhelming... or for any reason at all. This is deceptively hard work.” Dr Sood leaned toward John with her forearms resting comfortably against her knees. She had no notepad. John wondered if her memory was just that good, if she was secretly recording them, or if she’d rush to her laptop after he'd left to write it all down. 

He nodded.

“First, choose something that makes you angry. Not furious. Just… annoyed.”

“When Sherlock stores baggies of body parts in the fridge.”

To her credit, Dr Sood showed no signs of surprise whatsoever. Must have read the blog, then.

“And when you feel angry about this, where do you feel it?”

“Where in my body? Well, I know I clench my fists a lot.”

“Anywhere else? A place that feels tight or tense?” 

John didn’t respond. 

“Tell me more about this thing he does which irritates you.”

John shrugged. “I try to use the fridge for normal things. Edible, non-formaldehyde-soaked things. I mean, I enjoy a good experiment as much as any bloke interested in medicine. I still find it fascinating, at least a lot of the time I do. But when I want to eat, I don’t want to feel like a zombie.” John smiled. Dr Sood didn’t.

“Humor helps diffuse your stronger emotions, but let's get to the heart of it. Why does it bother you, specifically? Tell me what you might say to him, given the opportunity.”

“Well, it’s common courtesy, isn’t it? And just because it doesn't bother _him_ — because it's in plastic and theoretically carries no health risk— doesn’t mean it isn't unpleasant for someone else. And I've _told_ him it is! But he keeps on acting as if since it doesn't really affect the actual quality of the food, it doesn't matter. And that isn't really it, though. I just don't want to look at it!”

“Right now, John. Where do you feel it right now?”

“My neck, where it meets my shoulder. It, actually hurts a bit. And my fists, yeah. It’s...not like I’m going to hit anyone, it's just clenching tight, like bracing. And, maybe my head hurts.” John straightened his posture. “But I can't really tell if it’s because of this. Might have before we started.”

“Since we are more aware of your body’s reactions, and you can feel your anger manifest on a physical level, we will be tying it into language and expression next. Eventually, we will provide you with a positive statement to focus on when you feel this way, and we will attempt to supercede the patterns you associate with your anger. The goal is not to no longer feel that emotion. Anger is healthy and protective. The goal is to not begin a series of linked responses and blindly follow pathways where you are no longer the master of your actions.” Dr Sood gave a quick smile this time. “You expressed interest in working quickly, so I will push forward to some things I would normally address in a future session. So… putting words to the feelings. How do you feel when this happens?”

“Besides angry?”

“More specific. You are angry because…”

“Because it's like I’m not even there. Like I don't matter at all.”

“So, a negative statement describing your feelings might be something like, ‘My feelings don’t matter’ or even, ‘I don’t matter.’ Sit with it, John. Find a new path out of those feelings. Let your mind wander while you hold the pulsars. You read the article I sent you?”

“Yeah. It's how the brain stores things. Gonna hack into it, basically. By imitating the physical aspects of processing. And process them over again.”

She nodded. “This is one method of recalling closely-related memories.”

John held the odd, paddle-shaped objects, one in each hand. They vibrated slightly— first one, then the other, alternating seconds apart. He felt a slight rocking sensation, side-to-side, as if he were moving, although he wasn’t. Or maybe he was, almost imperceptibly? He couldn’t help but think of a ping pong ball, though he couldn’t quite visualise it. There was just this vague sense of motion. 

John knew it was meant to create a dream-state without using hypnotism. Hypnotism… now _that_ was something he’d never agree to in a million years. No, he needed to be fully aware, fully in control. This was supposed to have an effect on the brain similar to lucid dreaming—encouraging the sort of connections one makes in that liminal state—but it didn't feel hazy at all. In fact, it felt even more vivid than usual. His senses actually felt heightened. Not like awakening from a dream, but being in one and watching it unfold.

“Where are you? What do you see?”

“I am at home. With my family. I don’t know how old I am...eight, maybe? I don’t have a clear picture. But I... I smell something, though. Something is definitely burning. It’s food on the stove. Burning food, and my mum is arguing with Harry and my dad isn't here. He’s off somewhere. Maybe work. Maybe not. I don't know. And I’m… I’m at the table.”

“Stay here a while, John. How do you feel? In this moment.”

“It’s like I’m invisible. Like I’m sitting here doing the right things and not causing any trouble and it doesn't matter, because Harry and Mum are going at it and I could sit here and just slowly vanish. I want to eat the bacon and eggs. It’s the bacon… that's what’s burning, but the pan is next to Mum and I don't want to go up there and get it because I’d have to be closer to the two of them and they are still arguing and I’m… I want her to know I’m here. Just, waiting.” John laughed.

“What?”

“This. Fuck. So, I’m...” John shook his head. “This is childish, if this is part of why I’m…. Seriously. I was shot through the shoulder and left behind to die in the desert and the thing I am uncovering as some sort of lynchpin in therapy is this? My friend, my… partner… is dealing with having witnessed his sister _kill a child_ , and I had a bad breakfast. Oh, the trauma of overcooked bacon!”

“Think like a child, John. You are a child here.”

“Children are fully capable of not being selfish prats.”

“Not only are you a child, but the issue you are processing, as a child, is the same one you continue to struggle with as an adult. You are left behind. You feel discarded because you have chosen not to stand out and make your feelings known. Perhaps initially because you felt the pressure to be the ‘good one’, but this is a repeating pattern. A motif, if you will. You couldn't be certain someone would find you when you were injured. You feel your partner won't respect your wishes, so you shove them aside or express them in less than direct ways, or bury them under humour to dilute the emotional impact. The feelings themselves are what’s key here, not the events through which they manifest.” She watched John carefully, waiting for him to look up at her. “I’m going to get the pulsars again. Drift. These feelings are connected to your anger. Repeated, small events cause their own type of trauma, but there are other, larger ones as well. Don't discount any of it. Discounting things you feel is part of what your anger is rooted in. Don't do it to yourself. Feelings are not petty.”

“Yes they are. Yes, they fucking are.”

“All right, I’m not going to push too much today. We will end this session now with a positive statement.”

“I’m supposed to say something positive?”

“This isn’t going to feel good, working through this, but you _are_ working through it. And that's what’s important here. The anger you are feeling— even now, just thinking about it? Overwrite it. Give yourself a supportive message. It’s fine if it isn't something you even believe is true. We will be working on that.”

“I don’t have to be noticed to matter?”

“Reframe it. Positive.”

“I matter. And I don’t have to do anything to make myself matter. I don’t have to do anything to prove I’m important. I just am.”

“Good.”

“So, the reason I do… this... is because I want to make myself more important? Is that... is that what you are saying?”

“I'm not saying anything. Is that a conclusion that makes sense to you? This type of therapy is based on insight. You make your own connections based on what comes up for you during your work here. If these things are connected in your mind, that merits further exploration.”

***

John was home and sitting in the kitchen. How he got there was a bit of a blur. He just felt tired. Dr Sood had warned him about this. That he’d feel drained...that it was more physically intense than the therapy he was accustomed to. But this was not what he had expected. It felt almost like a hangover. 

He stared at the mobile. He needed to call Sherlock now. And he didn't want to.

Being grilled was the last thing he needed. None of what he learned made him feel hopeful, just like a bit of damaged goods that didn't even deserve to be with anyone— let alone someone with real problems. But. It would help Sherlock if he called. And he wouldn’t have to say too much, anyway. It wasn't as if Sherlock wouldn't just hear him breathe and be able to tell him all about what happened today. All about his whole life, probably. Fine. Fine fine fine he’d call. It rang once.

“John.” Sherlock sounded tired, too.

“Hey.”

“So… what are your thoughts on EMDR?”

“Aren’t _you_ going to tell _me_?”

Sherlock paused. “That bad?”

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m just...exhausted is the right word, and I really have no reason to be. You?”

“Here. That’s all I’d care to say. I’m here. Fortunately, the nursing profession has a high turnover rate. I’ve no reputation proceeding me.”

“You were that much trouble? Of course you were. Forget I asked.”

“Remember right before Baskerville, when I was bored to death and desperate for a cigarette?”

“Absolutely, yes.” John ran his fingers through his hair, closed his eyes, and fought the urge to keep them that way. Christ, he was tired. “Ok, so, if I multiply that by the level of need—”

“Might we discuss your impressions of Dr Sood instead?”

John nodded. “Well, she seemed competent. And she didn’t waste my time on all this ‘getting to know you’ stuff. She just had me answer some questions in an email before I actually saw her, and sent an article about what to expect. She’s right. It’s different.” John collapsed onto his sofa. Had he been pacing between the kitchen and his sitting room the whole time he had been talking? “I’m not sure what I think about the fact that basically all I’m doing is moving my eyes a certain way, but, it seems to work. I mean, it’s not just that, but, that really is a big part of it.”

“I have heard as much. It does seem a bit outre at first, but when examined, it makes neurological sense to mimic the brain’s own techniques. I’m curious as to what the process was like.”

“She basically asked me to try to become more aware of how I respond to anger.”

“While having you follow her hand to make the proper eye movements?”

“No, she used these things I held that vibrated and sort of made me think of movement. I’m glad it wasn’t something that felt closer to tracking a pocketwatch. It didn’t seem anything like hypnotism. Then she asked me to think about something that made me angry, so I could focus on the sensations I associated with it.”

Sherlock was quiet. It didn’t seem as if he was in deep thought, but John couldn't quite tell what was happening on his end. Eventually, Sherlock said, “I see. And so you chose an item from the long list of things I have done to anger you since you first met my acquaintance?”

John made what had started out as a fond smile, but transformed into a quick raise of the eyebrows and a sharp tilt of the head. “Care to guess which one?”

“The list of things which upset you is extensive and impossible to track. Why you don’t let some of it go is beyond my comprehension.”

“Simple consideration of others is not a whole bunch of little things. It is one big thing.”

“For me, it is an endless series of little things. Every time it is something different. And of course I miss some, because it is exhausting thinking of all of them!”

“It was the body parts in the fridge, for what it's worth, and I shouldn't have to tell you not to do something like that!”

Silence again. Then Sherlock replied in a far softer tone. “I’m sorry, John. It is certainly not my intention to ignore your wishes. When I’m focusing on an experiment, I don’t always.… I will do better, John.”

“Fine, I’ll just keep pointing it all out— as if you don’t already know. You know _everything_. Why don’t you just _fix_ it? Clean up after yourself! This is just common courtesy, and I— Hang on. Hang on. Give me a minute. Please.” John held his hand out in front of him as if motioning someone to stop, though he wasn’t sure if the gesture was meant for Sherlock or for himself. Sherlock had already backed down, though, hadn’t he? John didn’t even know for sure, but he thought Sherlock had. It hadn’t mattered, as he was already a shark out for blood. John returned to a normal volume, struggling to talk himself through whatever he was supposed to remember do next. “It’s in my shoulders. What the hell am I supposed to tell myself? I am important, too? I’m important. Well, that didn't do all that much.”

“You are very important to _me_. You are crucial to all aspects of my life. But….” Sherlock stopped, then began again, slowly, with great care. “For you, there are never any small issues...ever. And I can't always be aware of each one. I do let things go, because I must. I do even... train myself not to notice all the details around me when I'm not in case-mode. Otherwise, I would be.… Otherwise, I see everything that needs doing, all at once. It surrounds me, and never ends.”

“I hadn't… okay. Okay, not about me. Not about me at all.”

“John.”

“Yeah?”

“That… was _it_ working... the process...wasn't it? I mean, not to say this example was on par with some of the other things I’ve done, but…”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was. And it was… uh…”

“Surprisingly okay?”

“Yeah, surprisingly okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much Zenolalia, for letting me know that my description of EMDR was accurately written and helping me add a bit more on the actual process...having never done this type of therapy myself. (Oh, and if you are in the UK you can use Dr Sood...though I have no idea if she's good or not..I just saw her name when I was researching the technique.)


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock rolled over to the sound of an orderly bringing food on a tray. It was 8 am. He was generally a late riser, and he had hoped to sleep in a bit to recover from a rather difficult week. Well, that was an understatement.

The worst part of these programs was how they’d force you to live your life on someone else's timetable. Someone would be back in an hour to pick up the tray— empty or full. Then at noon for the same. And six: his last chance to eat until they came round again in the morning. 

Sherlock rolled back into the thin pillow he had folded in half. He’d forgo breakfast, even though the best he could hope for was somehow managing to fall asleep immediately, only to be awoken at 9 as they collected the tray and roused him to do some god-awful group... _thing_... at 10. He considered simply not waking up. He nearly chuckled aloud at that. That sounded rather suicidal, didn't it? No. Not waking up as in feigning some sort of catatonia. But that would ultimately reward him with more of their attention, not less. 

Figuring out the undisclosed personal histories of the others in the group would be a short-term distraction at best, good for about half an hour. He’d then deduce how each would respond to questions as they were posed, in an attempt to extend the time. It would be entertaining, if he cared what they thought… but he didn’t. Everyone’s tragic backstory was tedious. And here he was with one of his own. It wasn't enough to feel different because he _was_ different. (And, frankly, better.) No, fate had decided to provide him with his very own tragic backstory— without even the courtesy of informing him of it. Effects without ever having understood the causes. He would have prefered any number of them— causes, that is. Sociopath might have been off the table, but schizoid could have still been in play. He had conjured up what he thought was Redbeard so vividly back when he had needed comfort; it would have been nice to have just loved his dog that much. There are, doubtless, people in this world who do. He could have been one of them. But what he had gotten was horrors on which he had barely scratched the surface. What else had Euros done...tried to do? And how could he ever trust his recollection of any of it?

At least there wasn't an emphasis on regurgitating the past at this particular facility. Here, they focused on the practicality of overcoming addictive behaviours. Or at least had done so on his two previous stays— both staff and times change. His mind had not lent itself toward the introspection which other facilities had encouraged, and with everything firmly locked away, it made even more sense now why he hadn’t responded well to any treatment center that concerned itself with root causes. 

He’d left those programs. Signed himself out and ignored Mycroft’s threats to leave him with nowhere to turn save the street. He’d take the street. Well, breaking into the homes of people on holiday and sleeping on their sofa. Painfully easy to spot a light on a timer. Soon after, he’d progressed to breaking into hotels. Much nicer. They even had free food on the concierge level. So, it really wasn't ‘on the streets’ at all, but only due to his highly-specialised skills and flexible morality. 

It made sense why Mycroft kept trying. It likely had been entirely his idea to make past events magically vanish. Just a few keywords to shape a young and pliant brother’s mind. Well, Sherlock was no longer young and pliant, paint laid on too thickly will eventually crack, and what else could Mycroft do save watch and worry? Part of him wanted to go back on the streets again. Longed for it. Not some persona created for a case, but just to show Mycroft he had been wrong. To punish him. But Sherlock had something to look forward to once he made it through this. Even if a new life with John wasn't supposed to be the type of thing to serve as motivation to get clean, it at least stood a fair chance at counteracting the impulse to watch himself crash and burn and shout out ‘I told you so’ to the man watching it all on a CCTV screen and biting his nails in private in place of binge eating petit-fours. Besides, Sherlock never did care for how things _should_ be done.

Sherlock replaced the standard ‘drugs are bad’ message (tuned out just as effectively now as at age 13) with _drugs are useful, or else you wouldn't take them, but if you continue at this, the very best scenario is your ending up back here in this phenomenal time sink_. If it had been an actual prison, at least he could get a look at the next crop of criminals about to be unleashed upon society. This was just a collection of people intent on ruining their lives for various reasons and taking down others as collateral damage. Would they ever put him in a real prison, or would he get a special glass one too? He still felt nauseated thinking about any aspect of that experience. Or maybe it was the lack of morphine in his system that was making him ill. It was likely both in concert. How efficient. He couldn’t afford to forget any details of his time at Sherrinford, lest he go up against Eurus again in the future. He’d need every scrap of information, so even if deleting was an option, it was not advisable. And, if he did end up living with John again...no, _when_... it would be terrifically unjust to leave him alone with the memories. Forgetting was a privilege he would not afford himself a second time. He sighed. _I was meant to be sleeping._

At least John had been using his memories to good effect. Speaking with him yesterday had felt hopeful. Productive, even. And John was progressing quickly. Sherlock didn't need to make progress. He just needed to bear it, go through the one-size-fits-all processing, and come out the other side clean— like some sort of automatic car wash. 

_Car wash,_ he thought once more, as he sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs arranged in a tight circle. Not ideal, but it still removed nearly all the dirt efficiently. Quite unlike the gentle bucket-and-sponge handwashing a more caring vehicle owner might provide. That would be someone like John, the man with the soapy sponge and chamois and loving touch and my god suddenly Sherlock’s mind was entirely elsewhere, beset with flashes of erotic images of a shirtless and soaked John washing a car, along with admittedly bizarre thoughts about what it would feel like to actually _be_ said car. Sherlock shook his head, but the imagery kept up, morphing into even more blatantly sexual fantasies. Now of his own body, stripped, running through some sort of machine, which was a bit less carwashy but clearly inspired by one with its hanging strips of fabric wrapping around his limbs like hundreds of hands, or gliding smoothly across his slicked chest, or.…“You're no better than the rest of us!”, the man directly across from Sherlock shouted out angrily, and suddenly he was jolted back into reality, quickly gathering whatever information he could on his detractor. Served him right, getting distracted by his increasingly intrusive sexual thoughts. They had seemed more manageable in the past. He’d have to examine whether this was due to his changing relationship with John or the lack of libido-dampening substances in his system once this farce ended.

The session leader spoke up quickly. “Al, that was uncalled for. You are making false associations. Far too often we lash out at someone who reminds us of a person in our past when we are in the middle of highly emotional processing. You have no reason to believe that is true.” 

One of the younger ones. Clearly named after his father, and his father's father… and likely aware, though certainly not appreciative, of the other things the generations had in common. Sherlock put on one of his more sympathetic expressions. “I never said I was.”

Al ignored Sherlock and turned to the session leader. “Yeah, but he’s thinking it. Looking at me like that.”

Actually, for once, he hadn’t been. Looking at anyone ‘like that’ or believing himself better than the others. Though earlier today he’d thought of himself as better, yes. But better meaning smarter. That was undeniable fact. And smarter was perhaps a form of better, in a way that was quantifiable, but he had met a few people by now who weren’t nearly as intelligent as he, but were certainly what nearly anyone would consider to be better. 

If you were lucky, you could take control of your differences, the things that separated you from everyone else, and decide they were actually strengths. You might just believe it for a time. But under it all, you were really just...different. And, in the ways that probably mattered most, worse, not better. Oh, he could talk a good game. Call his homeless network The Great Unwashed, joke about needing sanitizer, all to keep John from ever suspecting he’d skirted on the edges of that life. Here, he was no different from anyone else in the ways that mattered most. Particularly if someone were to suddenly plunk a few lines down on the table. Some of them might even have comparable chemistry skills, in this context, if they had been at it long enough. No, it was surprisingly egalitarian, rehab. The truly intelligent person would never end up in someplace like this. Certainly not more than once, at any rate. No better way to keep one's ego in check than to realise you are an utter failure in that aspect. And this was his fourth go. Fifth, if you counted that sort of at-home-supervision Mycroft had done when he had been nearly 15. 

Sherlock wanted to put Al — Alfred? Albert? Aldebert?— back in his place. It would be easy enough to do. But he felt, not exactly bad for him but…. Yes, that was it. He felt bad for him. Whatever his journey here, it couldn't have been a good one. Not verbally eviscerating someone. Progress. 

Sherlock felt another wave of nausea, stronger than this morning. And he couldn't blame Eurus this time around. Well...not directly, anyway. And the longer he stayed seated in the chair, his eyes tracing around the circle from person to person, the worse it got. The leader looked at him with concern, about to say something, when Sherlock bolted to the toilet. 

Splashing cold water on his face was no comfort whatsoever, and that he found himself weighing the benefits of opening the stall to rest his flushed face against the cool, but certainly questionable, porcelain seat was enough to make him retch into the sink, grateful he had skipped the 9 am meal. The bile burned his throat all the same. He needed to lie down. Not here though. Please not on the loo floor. It was bad enough being in this situation, but he needed to at least get through it with some sort of grace. It was no use. He was steadying himself with a hand upon the sink and easing himself downward when the group leader came in with a wheelchair and guided him into it. Sherlock managed some weak words of thanks as he was transported to his room.

Being in bed did make him feel less inclined to pass out, but it wasn't long before the nausea was replaced by shaking. This felt better. Vomiting was far worse than what was essentially reflexive muscle movement. But when it wouldn't stop, he felt more overwhelmed. More helpless. And that, more than anything, was what made him feel miserable. His body was entirely beyond his control now. A nurse came in with a cart containing three syringes, looked at Sherlock’s chart, shook her head nearly imperceptibly, and wheeled it right out of the room. No. No agonists. Just...just get through this. A week. The worst should be over in three days time. Three days. He could do that. Once his hands stopped shaking, he could call John. That would make it better.

At noon, Sherlock was vaguely aware of a short, ginger girl with a brogue she was attempting to hide entering the room to deliver lunch. He didn’t want to risk sitting up for fear the nausea would return, and the shaking hadn’t yet subsided. He could handle one or the other, but he wasn't sure about both. 

She offered to help him eat, but he declined— enough indignities for one day— and when she turned to leave, he reached for his mobile. He could hold it, but had trouble hitting the right buttons, even on a preprogrammed number. Later, then. Besides, he was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything but his own body. His pulse was speeding up now, and the sweat was replaced by chills. Incongruous, to have your heart racing yet feel cold, but his body was flipping between extremes seemingly randomly. He wrapped the blanket around himself tightly, which seemed to create an illusion of tempering the shaking, and tried for sleep.

He woke up some hours later with stomach pain. It wasn’t intolerable, just enough to have made continued sleep impossible. The shaking had subsided for now, but he knew the drill. Nausea and diarrhea, hot and cold, aches. Just like a bad case of influenza— ride it out. He didn’t feel like eating, but they’d make him do soon. That, or set up an IV line which would keep him tethered to the bed and likely force the use of a bedpan. He’d eat.

The ginger girl came back with dinner and told him he had slept through his counseling appointment, but the staff had agreed to just let him be this time around. Well, it hardly mattered, did it? There was nothing to be done to possibly help him through this. It was intensely physical. Sherlock wasn't particularly good at intensely physical. Maybe focusing on his mind instead for an hour would have been a relief. 

The girl (really she was in her early twenties, but seemed younger) patiently watched as Sherlock gripped the spoon like a vice and somehow managed to bring a shaking hand down into the soup and then over to his mouth. She smiled in a way that Sherlock knew should have been pleasant and encouraging, so he told himself it was.

Eating required far more effort and concentration than he had expected, and it wasn't until she had left that Sherlock picked up the phone once more. There were two text messages visible on the home screen, one from John which said **Been trying to wait for you to call me but had enough of that. Didn't want to risk waking you though. Call me when you’re up.**

The second was a group text from Greg, which simply said **You both safe?**  
John would handle that. He surprised himself by his sudden and fierce determination to keep where he was a secret. Greg knew about all of the other times...why would one more matter? Was he ashamed? Why now?

Since he hadn’t said anything else in the text, it was clear John hadn't updated Greg on the both of them. Perhaps John wouldn't say anything at all... but he could just as easily be terribly blunt. ‘Greg, Sherlock’s gone off the deep end again and I shipped him off to Cornwall.’ John had often boasted about Sherlock’s accomplishments on his blog, but hadn’t done so in quite some time. Maybe he was disillusioned, embarrassed, even. After all, it had been Sherlock who had pushed their relationship forward. Sherlock reread John’s text. No. No, he was sincere; John wanted this, too.

Well, John shouldn't be the one to have to do this, to take on what was Sherlock’s issue and consequently his responsibility. Sherlock texted Greg slowly, one letter at a time, backspacing and retyping until the autocorrect finally offered up the right choice.

**Thank you for your concern. John is doing well. I am at Boswyns**

The reply came more quickly than anticipated. **Oh. The two week program?**

Sherlock hit the _y_ and let it fill in yes.

**When was Day One?**

‘Yes’ turned into ‘yesterday’. This was generally the moment when Lestrade would have offered to visit him and Sherlock would then have declined and the conversation would have ended abruptly as neither could have thought of what to say next.

**I would offer to keep you company for a bit, but I assume John is doing that. Three’s a crowd.**

**No, actually. John is** — Sherlock paused, not quite believing what he was about to type— **working on some issues that he would prefer to address privately. It is difficult for me to explain via text messaging. Perhaps you might wish to listen in person?**


	13. Chapter 13

Greg smiled at the waitress as she placed a beer in front of each of them. Greg’s third, as he had started before Sherlock and John’s cab had arrived. “So, now that you two finally took my advice and are back to, some sort of partnership—” 

Sherlock sighed, while John chuckled quietly and said, “Yes. And we’re being completely open about it. Our partnership. Our relationship.”

“Say what you wish to whomever you—,” Sherlock began, before catching something in Greg’s expression. “Wait. You are entirely too pleased. Don’t tell me you’ve won some sort of Yarders betting pool?”

“On you two getting together? That would have required the both of you to actually communicate. Can't imagine anyone would take that bet. No. Just happy for you. Been a long time coming. And since you’re back to working cases together, with much healthier bodies and minds, I have two things I want to put on the table.” Greg was already starting to elongate his words, courtesy of the fine ale, and Sherlock let just a hint of indulgence filter through, as he put on one of his more animated expressions of anticipation. “Firstly… anything else you might be doing together… that’s no business of mine.“ Greg winked and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And the other thing… well…”

John edged forward while Sherlock leaned back and took a few hesitant sips.

“I’m on desk duty for a while yet,” he continued, “so I’ve been put in charge of coordinating a special project on human trafficking. You know the drill… brought over on promises of paid work, but no papers means they’re hopelessly in debt to their new ‘bosses’ for anything they need to survive. And about a tenth of our operations tackling this slavery involves car washes —”

Sherlock choked on the pint he’d been nursing.

“Hey, shouldn’t you not be drinking? I thought alcohol was off limits in recovery?”

“I’m not on any program and alcohol has never been and will never be my drug of choice. I ordered it so the waitress wouldn't be any more overwhelmed than she currently is. She’s having a rough night, and beer is the expectation, which makes it easier for everyone if I just play along a bit. Besides, I wanted to do _this_.” Sherlock smiled and held his glass high. “Glad to be back in the game. That sentiment applies equally to all of us. And as for the case you’re clearly about to offer, you're in luck. I’d even take a 4 this week.”

Greg clinked his glass against Sherlock’s somewhat clumsily. “Hear, hear!”

John raised his glass and tilted it toward the others, though a bit more subdued, to join in the toast.

Greg’s expression dimmed slightly. “Well, after the death of Sandu Laurentiu—”

“Romanian, electrocuted in the shower of his horrific living quarters beside the car wash in Bethnal Green.”

“After his death there's been growing concern about hand car washes as hot spots. The victims are often Romanian, but the criminal syndicate running the show is from Albania. Since I am not quite mobile yet, but dying to work on something, it’s been tossed about that I take on Kevin Hyland’s—he’s the Independent Anti Slavery Commissioner, I know petty government officials aren’t your strong suit—pet project.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Go on.”

“It’s a mobile app to help prevent human trafficking. It’s finished and ready to be distributed widely next week. It asks people who go get their car washed to enter information about it. Were there children, did workers seem fearful, were they wearing protective clothing, were prices lower than £6.70? That sort of thing.”

Sherlock quirked his lip. “So once our criminal element has seen what will become a highly publicised app…”

John chimed in to finish the thought. “The traffickers invest in a pair of boots and gloves, raise their prices to £7, and go about their business as usual with even fewer indicators for police to pick up on. Nice of the commissioner to encourage them to increase their profits.”

Greg frowned. “ _John_. That’s _awfully_ cynical.”

“Therapy brings out honesty, I suppose?” 

“Well now, their heart is in the right place,” said Greg. “There’s still plenty of tells they can’t cover up so quick. Cash only, workers appear to live there… And this way, ordinary people can get involved.”

Sherlock typed quickly into his mobile and began reading off the screen. “‘ _Holy God_ give _courage_ and _commitment_ to all those who use the app?’” He gave Greg a hard stare. “Who’s sponsoring this?”

“The Clewer Initiative, the Church of England’s organisation fighting modern slavery, and the Santa Marta Group, the Catholic version of the same thing.” Greg straightened his posture and cleared his throat. “There are close to 20,000 handwashes throughout the city— all pretty much unregulated. And I will be responsible for coordinating all the data.”

“With whom? God?”

“It goes to the University of Nottingham’s Rights Lab, where they will study it for six months.”

Sherlock’s voice tightened. “And do nothing during all that time and then release a useless report.”

“Right. So I thought, since I will have all the raw data, you two might see fit to start the project a little early. By the time they’re done with the preliminary rinse, I'm sure you’ll have a wealth of information. Stuff we can follow up on to get to the bottom of it. Check out the more suspicious locations before the app is widely known, and keep going on a bit after, too.”

“And a good reason to go wash Mrs H’s car,” said John, “if she wanted.”

“Has she got a… oh. Got it in the divorce, did she?”

“She sends it out to be detailed regularly, judging by the state of the _trunk_." Sherlock hit the final consonant hard.

“Molly probably wouldn't mind if we washed hers,” said John. “And her friend would have access to a steady stream of cars, actually.”

Sherlock set his mobile down to look at John. “Molly has a girlfriend?”

“I did not say that. Molly has a girl, that's a friend.” Greg and Sherlock both smiled. “And besides, that is private information until Molly decides to announce she-” John’s eyes dropped to the table and he muttered, “Fine. How did I give it away?”

“You hesitated. Just a bit,” replied Sherlock.

“And I already knew,” added Greg.

“You did?” said John.

“Yeah. She was there when Molly came to visit. Kinda obvious when people are in love.” Greg looked somewhat hazily at the two men in front of him, lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows. “Even if it isn’t obvious to them yet.”

“Sometimes it is obvious, but the next step is not,” Sherlock countered.

“That’s my fault. I blamed Sherlock for the end result of a chain of events that really hadn't started with him at all. I… wanted to blame someone. Life is easier when you can do that. Have a direction to vent your anger. When things go to hell.”

Greg eyed his drink briefly, then turned to John. “Look. I’ve gone through a lot lately. And every bit of the recovery process has sucked. Maybe we can all relate to that aspect just a bit, yeah? But I’d like to think I provided you with just a little push in the right direction.”

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat and John watched as he returned to poking at his mobile impatiently. “Yeah Greg’s right,” said John. "We’ve all had enough self-examination lately to have hopefully learned the point isn't keeping it all in. Sherlock, you want to say something. Go ahead.”

Sherlock looked doubtfully at Greg, who simply nodded. 

“That sounded a bit too much like you needed to go through something unspeakably horrific to either attain some sort of ridiculous sense of universal balance, or that there is an ill-conceived notion that something good must have come out of it. If the events were indeed connected in some manner, to the degree that one relied upon the other, I’d sooner John and I had worked our respective issues through much later. Or…” Sherlock looked at John and fell silent.

“Or not at all," John added. “It’s okay to say ‘or not at all’.”

“Oh. I’m not responsible for,” Greg gestured between Sherlock and John, “for this at all. I've just decided to cultivate a happy sense of self importance. The illusion I brought you two together. I’m allowed to do that, you know. I’m allowed to take my worst moments and put whatever joyful post-flood rainbow spin on it I want to. It's a better alternative than acknowledging the randomness that always has the potential ruin you. And I do choose to not be ruined by it.” Greg sighed. “Dammit, there goes my buzz. Oh well. I’ll catch up. We are allowed to think we are the center of the universe and all decisions come about from our own actions. Or lack of actions. The important thing is...we have to know it's bollocks.”

Sherlock shook his head. “If not for me…. If not for me you wouldn't have been there. If not for me, Mary would be alive.”

“In a way we are always the center of our own universe. But, if we throw aside the dramatic, and we look at the _facts_ ,” Greg turned to Sherlock and gave him a stare that started out hard but rapidly softened, “usually the accountability lies with someone who is in every other way insignificant in your life. In my case, it’s Alec Cunningham. Not whoever threw me in his path. Not even whoever messed up Cunningham’s life— and I’m pretty sure several people did— because he made his own decisions. And the person most responsible for Mary’s death— which I would guess she saw coming for a long time— was Vivian Norbury. We can not be responsible for the whole chain, even as we think our way up and down it. Well, I try to. You actually do. I get that you would do that. That’s… one of the things that makes you Sherlock Holmes. What you need… what we all need… is a good case.”

Greg spoke just a bit louder and clearer than before. “Too bad I can’t provide one of course, since I have no authority to do that until I’m off leave. And you’d need backup.” He reached into his pocket and tossed his keys onto the table with enough noise for the bartender, a burly man who has been wiping down the counter more aggressively than was strictly necessary, to glance over. The man dropped his cleaning rag on the bar top, and gave Greg what would have been an imperceptible nod to nearly anyone but the three men seated at the table. “My car’s in the station garage. Been sitting there a while, collecting dust. Must be awfully dirty. I won't be driving for a few weeks yet, but could you do me a favour, both of you, and give her a good washing for me?” Greg ripped a sheet of paper out of his notebook. “Heard by word of mouth that this one, behind the OXO, is a bargain.”

“We’ll do it for you, Greg, no problem,” John said.

“Might give us some more places you’d heard about,” said Sherlock. “In case it’s closed. Those places sometimes shut down faster than anyone might expect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Anywen, for giving me such a rich prompt! This was longer than I anticipated, but I wanted all the steps to ring true. I hope I hit all the areas you were hoping to have explored. Thank you to my good friends at Antidiogenes (especially Anarfea, Vulgarweed, Pipmer, DulcimerGecko and Aria) for your encouragement. Thanks to PersianSlipper for some early brainstorming to set my course, and Areteisjohnlocked, for reminding me that my fic is not some sort of template for continuing abusive relationships that should not be continued.
> 
> Your thoughts, dear reader, are always encouraged.
> 
> Oh and BTW...the carwash thing is very very real....as is the app. And the webpage about it. It has been discussed in many articles, but here's a pretty thorough one with links:https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/modern-slavery-safe-car-wash-app-drivers-report-uk-catholic-church-england-a8381086.html


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